LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.. Copyright No. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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GREENWOOD 

MEDITATIONS AMONG THE TOMBS 



DANIEL PELTON 



" The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Await alike th' inevitable hour :— 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave." 

Gray. 


j 


NEW YORK lit*^ 


6^ 


'. L. ALLISON COMPANY, Publishers 


,1 
1 


1897 












Copyright, 1896, 

BY 

DANIEI. PEWON. 






Wthitation. 



To those, if any, who chance to read this Work 
and enjoy it, must thank the dear companion 
that I made my wife, (the joy of my life and 
helper in my old age,) who imagined she had 
found treasure in it that I had never fondly 
hoped to discover, and who insisted on making it 
public ; and to whom in justice I now dedicate 
this, my humble effort. 

Yours sincerely, 

THE AUTHOR. 



T HAD never given much thought to the publica- 
•*- tion of my poems, and so to leave it to others if 
they thought it worth while after my death ; but at 
the continuous request of my wife I put forth this 
selection, hoping to please some of my many friends 
who have expressed a desire to see some of my 
works ; most of them have been written years ago. 
In days whilom, when I drove my team afield try- 
ing to make two blades of grass grow where one had 
been, or inoculating some barren tree to make it 
produce rich and luscious fruit. Born a rhythmer, 
amid sublimer scenes, the music of the spheres beats 
time against the raptured brain and poured sweet 
poesy from the willing lips, and thus I wrote. 

For the better understanding of those who do not 
remember it, I would tell them at the time " Green- 
wood " was written there were two entrances, one for 
funerals and the other for visitors, we entered by 
the last named, near the Poets' Mound. 



CONTENTS. 



GREENWOOD. 

PAGE 

Poets* Mound 13 

Invocation. Mr. Donald Clark 15 

Eulogy 17 

The Indian Mound. 19 

George W. Browne's Tomb 22 

The Pomp of Wealth 24 

The Infant's Grave 26 

Mary C. Dike and John R. Paxton 28, 29 

Mrs. Mary Paxton 30 

Childhood and Age 31 

The Thought of Death 32 

The Funeral 34 

The Keeper's Lodge 36 

Lamentation 37 

The Beggar 38 

The Curse of Intemperance, 39 

Bay Grove Hill 40 

Reflections on the Wickedness of New York 41 

William Burbank and De Witt Clinton 44, 45 

Virginia Mingary and Dr. Wainwright 46, 47 

Charlotte Cauda 48 

Samuel D. Scudder 49 

Richardson 50 

The Volunteer Officers 51 

Battle Hill 52 

My Country's Flag 54 

A. L. F. Cowdrey 55 

Samuel J. Gillespie 56 

The Pilot 57 

Victor Marcet 59 

True Happiness 60 

George and Albert Swan 62 

Moses Kimball 63 

Cozzens 64 

John M. Bruce 65 

Ocean Hill 66 

Family Burying-Grounds 67 

The Indian Spirit 69 

David Hale 71 



g C0Nf:ENT3. 

Rev. David Abeel 72 

Frederic Place 73 

On the death of Emma Mott 74 

Jonathan Goodhue 76 

Detached Thought 77 

Dr. Mitchell 86 

Chancellor Kent 88 

Harpers 89 

German Grounds 90 

The Pilgrim Fathers 91 

Public Lots 93 

Piero Maroncelli 93 

Italy 94 

An Invective against Tyranny 95 

Dinah Depuy 96 

Fountain Hill 97 

The Firemen's Monument 98 

The Evil of Insubordination 100 

Conclusion 101 

Concluding Elegy 102 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dire Winter Rules the Dreary Realm 107 

Flow Gently, Sweet Wave 109 

The Clove 110 

The Rainbow 112 

The Setting Star 114 

The Seasons all Must Own their Bounds 116 

I've Seen the Sullen Wmter Sun 117 

The Poetry of Nature 118 

I'll Never Strike the Lyre Again 119 

If Mary will but Smile 120 

The Complaint 121 

Those Early Walks that we Have Taken 122 

The Echo of Home 123 

Woman's Heart 125 

Time 126 

Mary 127 

The Old Cruser Burying-Place 128 

The Storm 129 

To Laura Pelton 130 

My Old Shoes 132 

To Sophie 134 



CONTENTS, 9 



PAGE 



Friendship, To Samuel Burger 135 

The Kiss 136 

On the Death of My Little Dog " Lily" 137 

Oh, Loveliest Star of Night that Shines -. 138 

My Jennie's Grave 140 

Oh, Jennie Dear ! Oh, Jennie Dear ! 143 

But Still I Know My Jennie's Dead 144 

On the Death of Mrs. Burkman's Darling Child 145 

On the Death of Josephine 147 

On the Death of Emma Mott 148 

I Would not Have Thee Back, My Love 149 

On the Death of Mamie E. Benedict Basinger 150 

Memory, On the Death of Mamie E. Benedict Basinger. 151 

Written Valentine's Day After the Death of 152 

On the Death of Peter the Flower Boy 154 

On the Death of Andrew Jackson Downing 156 

To the Memory of Burns 157 

To Mary 158 

The Western Hunter 159 

There Is an Arm to Save .....> 162 

Come, Jesu, Kind and Loving God 163 

On Recovering from Sickness, March, 1859 164 

Written for the Orphan Children's Home 166 

The Lamb of Calvary 168 

Is this My Mary's Home ? 169 

Thou, Who of Hope could Fondly Sing 170 

The Stolen Lock 171 

Think I can't Love when Far Away ! 172 

Repentance 173 

The Passions Burning 174 

I cannot Boast of Love Divine. (To Sophie) 175 

On Finding a Dead Swallow 176 

The Wish 177 

Dryads, I have Lost My Love 1*78 

ToJenny H 180 

To Cupid 181 

A Sonnet 182 

Ye Little Birds Awake no Note 183 

Love 184 

I Never Told Thee that I Loved 185 

To Isabel 186 

Hear Me ! Hear Me ! Isabel 187 

Why Should My Rose Neglected Lie 188 

That Happy Time WiU Come, Mary 189 



10 CONTENTS, 

PAGE 

Young Malinda < 190 

See How Matilda Scorns My Love 192 

To Isabel , 193 

Still I Love Thee 194 

To Camilla 195 

To Mary 196 

ToChloe 197 

The Maid of Rahway 199 

The Maid of Old Town 201 

To Sophie. I have Thought of Thee a Thousand Times. 203 

To Sophie 204 

The Girl I Love so Dearly 205 

Biddy Young 206 

To Miss Mary L. Pelton 208 

My Island Maid 210 

The Battle of Inkermann 211 

Crittendon the Cuban Patriot 213 

An Eulogy on my Old Cat " Pink," Born March 30th, 

1886, Died, December 25th, 1849 215 

Away My Muse 216 

The Spring Rain 217 

Now I Have Learned in Love to Appear 218 

In Answer to a Lady who Wanted an Introduction. . . 219 

Did You ever Marry Yet 220 

Full Many a Lass I've Loved 221 

VALENTINES. 

1. I Need not Tell My Sophie 222 

2. To Sophie. The South Wind is Blowing 223 

3. Long as I Hear the Feathered Tribes. (To Sophie). 224 

4. So Stands the Elm. (To Mary) 225 

5. Tell Me ! Tell Me ! (To Isabel) 226 

6. Blest Be Thy Choice 227 

FOR ALBUMS. 

1. My Album is My Heart's Recorder . , 228 

2. We of Ourselves are but a Point to Start 228 

3. Wealth and Honor — Youth and Beauty 228 

4. Long May this Verse Your Vision Bless 229 

5. Pardon Me, Dear Friend, if I Presume 229 

6. In Flattering Verse to Jingle Charlotte's Name 229 

7. When Wasting Time has Swept this Hand Away. . 230 

8. Dear Lady, though You Bid Me Write 230 

9. Like Eden this may Bloom so Fair 230 



GREENWOOD. 



August 2Sd, 1850. 

How dull the morn, the low'ring curtains shed 
A fitting gloom for visiting the dead ; 
It brings those serious thoughts upon a brow- 
Where ruthless time has scarcely drawn a plow, 
And brings deep musing o'er the burning brain. 
Yet 'tis not joyless though 'tis charged with pain. 
By land my steed shall draw me on the way ; 
By steamers wafted where the waters sway ; 
My sister shall my solemn journey tend — 
My dear companion and my loveliest friend. 
Intent my thoughts upon the expected shore, 
Careless we pass where oft we've passed before. 
Till at the gate, O sacred spot ! we stand 

Where sister hills stand linked on either hand. 

11 



12 GBEENWOOD. 

Turn'd to the left we take the tour around 
And pass the lake — a heavenly spot of ground. 
Here Art to Nature lends a moulding hand, 
And grassy verdure carpets all the land ; 
The scattering fountain would to sunbeams tell 
That art can nature in one point excel. 



POETS' MOUND. 

And now the Poets' Mound awakes my lyre, 
Tunes ev'ry string, and sets my soul on fire ; 
To aid my pen no fancied muse I call. 
Come, Thou Great Spirit ! Governor of all ; 
Inspire my verse and tune the vocal lyre. 
Who sent the Seraph with the living fire : 
And should my verse a heavenly thought impart. 
Close not the ear, and harden not the heart. 

And who lies here ? What genius does it own ? 

Is this poor Clarke that's raised this costly stone ? 

Too proud to beg the bread he crav'd, 

None ever heard him groan, 

And thus he starv'd ; when in his grave 

They mock him with a stone. 

If he was worthy of historic praise, 

If his own merit such a stone could raise, 

13 



14 POETS' MOUND. 

Was he not worthy of the bread he crav'd, 
Till raging hunger into madness rav'd ? 
Seek not perfection in the tuneful Choir, 
'Tis torturing fortune sets the soul on fire. 
The poet is a harp unstrung till adverse fate 
Has soften'd, fired, or filled the soul with hate. 



INVOCATION. 

Come ! holy spirit of my song, 
And crown my lyre with bays, 

While forgetting other sacred dead, 
I sing McDonald's praise. 

Spectre shades, and spirits dire. 

In fancy cross the mind, 
While airy forms as bright as fire. 

Float round on wings of wind. 

Within this lone enchanting vale. 
Still dost thy spirit stay ? 

Or has it left this wicked world 
For calmer realms away ? 

To that far distant land 

To seek that unknown bourne, 

Who pined amid a social world, 

A spirit all forlorn. 
16 



16 INVOCATION. 

Come ! pour thy spirit on my verse, 

Thy wild poetic fire, 
To mingle in my solemn strain, 

Oh, grant thy friend's desire! 



EULOGY. 

The tears bedew my cheerless eyes, 
For whose with pity would not start, 
To think upon the mournful fate 
That has awaited Sandy Clarke. 

I've often heard men call him mad. 
And say dark spirits on him tend ; 
The mean excuse did make them glad. 
That then they need not him befriend. 

If it were so, then make me mad ! 

The change shall make my soul grow glad, 

'Twill leap beyond control. 

In broken ridges, grand, and rude. 

His harp sonorous tun'd the song ; 

With eagle glance his thoughts protrude ; 

Thus madly rolled his verse along. 
z 17 



18 EULOGY, 

Look thou for calm serenity, 
When gath'ring storms around us rise ; 
'Tis grandeur then like storms to be 
"When lightnings flash athwart the skies. 

Though long oppressed by poverty, 
Yet he from wealth did ever flee, 
And pin'd within his soul. 

His soul was like the mountain tide, 
That peaceful through the plain might glide. 
But when o'er rocks and ridges driven 
Its roar is echoed far and wide. 

His flight is check'd, his debt is paid. 
The conqueror bade the curfew toll : 
That Highland face is now a shade, 
And eyes that spoke a gen'rous soul. 

Those eyes that shone so radiant bright. 
Reflecting Heaven's pure azure light. 
At length have reached their goal. 



THE INDIAN MOUND. 

What figure strange upon this tomb I trace ? 

It is no image of our Saxon race, 

A swelling heart that's laboring in its grief, 

That would not weep lest it should find relief 

Iowa's chief, it seems, and can this be 

So late in bloom, thy lov'd Dohumme. 

So late a maid, so late a bride. 

Is this the end of human pride ? 

A daughter of a hunter wild, 

An Indian wife, a chieftain's child. 

Enough : they would not have it said 

That tears were to her tribute paid. 

Rest in the soil that once was thine, 

Thou last fair image of a glorious line. 

Compar'd with Afric's sons how bless'd 

In freedom's grave to find a rest ; 
19 



20 THE INDIAN MOUND. 

Majestic bright'ning in decline, 

Like setting stars that brighter shine, 

Thy dust bears record of thy fame 

Without one spot to blast thy name ; 

But still the negro lives the scorn 

Of those whose burdens long he's borne, 

And yields his sons to slavery 

Whom righteous heaven ordained as free. 

But these in time may yet assert their rights, 

And, joined with foreign and Confederate might, 

With streams of blood may dye the Southern plain. 

And Sparta call for Athens' aid in vain. 

Oh, brothers ! brothers ! while I plead with thee, 

Wilt thou not hear the cries of Slavery ? 

If not the negro can thy pity move. 

Think of thy race, and own a brother's love. 

Shall Slavery's weeds choke up fair freedom's soil, 

And freemen's labor weigh 'gainst slavery's toil? 

Shall Southern votes for the dumb negro pass 

And the free Northman vote not for his ass ? 

Shall few great planters fill the fertile plain 

And beach or crag is all the poor can gain ? 

Shall one proud lordling his poor negroes drive ? 

Where many freemen well might live and thrive ? 



THE INDIAN MOUND. 21 

Shall this weak point tempt some proud mighty foe. 
Where train'd in strength might deal the offensive 

blow, 
And hand in hand might move the public weal 
With hearts of firmness, and with fronts of steel ? 
But, my dear friends, let me no wrath excite ; 
'Tis mine alone the mournrful tale to write. 
When Heaven the curse of slavery would show 
She gave the pen to Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



GEORGE W. BROWNE'S TOMB. 

As up the hill we bend our winding way 

Where rival tombs their vaults, their fronts, display, 

Now, generous Xanthus, lightly tread. 

For here are laid the sacred dead ; 

Thou steed of proud Eclipse's strain. 

Thou has not drawn that blood in vain ; 

But check awhile that smouldering fire 

That proves thee of a noble sire. 

What massive weight is heaped upon the dead ! 

What gaudy show around their tombs are shed ! 

More wealth than worth is often gather'd here, 

And lying tombstones o'er their graves uprear ; 

Their anxious friends to cover every fault 

Rear the high tomb, or decorate the vault ; 

The conscious world in silence passing by, 

Pity their faults, nor chide the lifeless lie. 

22 



GEORGE W, BROWNE'S TOMB. L>3 

Now on a Gothic pile I rest my feasting eyes, 
With flnial plume, and tiles cut diamond- wise, 
With gabled front, and quatrefoil relief. 
With buttress firm, it stood awhile the chief. 
And still it may with costlier structures vie, 
And stand in time a proud antiquity. 



THE POMP OF WEALTH. 

As o'er the Hill with solemn pace and slow, 
The wond'ring eyes behold the vale below ; 
What wealth lies squander'd o'er the vulgar dead, 
What health, what comfort might its powers have 

spread ; 
This adds no comfort to the senseless dead, 
But by its bloom our living pride is fed ; 
'Tis here their family wealth and taste are shown, 
And merit told of — elsewhere never known ; 
Where weakness and vanity these tombs uprear. 
Pride triumphs oft where sorrow claims a tear. 

Heaven takes small note whence comes or goes the 
clay. 

Yet man will heap up stone that scarcely will de- 
cay, 

Well pleased we see these mighty structures rise. 

Yet Egyptian follies wisely all despise — 

24 



THE POMP OF WEALTH. 25 

They by their tyrants mighty labors wrought, 
We by a system with oppression fraught. 

The pomp of sorrow is frozen wealth's display, 
In burst of pride its grandeur seems to say, 
Here lies the great, great dust beneath this stone, 
A trumping chronicle that fame has never known. 

Yes ! this is more than common dust ! 

Dust made sacred by a soul ! 

Heaven consecrated with a holy trust ! 

This vacant hall the Heavens may still enroll. 



THE INFANT'S GRAVE. 

See o'er yon new-made grave the mother weeps ; 

With dewy tears the new-laid clods she steeps ; 

Thus loud she wails while bent down on the grass, 

She hears no trampling, sees no strangers pass. 

'Tis from our birth we're doom'd to feel this smart. 

The fairest flowers are soonest to depart. 

Their infant days alone to us are given, 

They only bud on earth to bloom in heaven, 

But the fell spirits that from hell proceed, 

Dwell long on earth, and many a wanton deed 

Shows their dark course while here on earth they 

dwell, 

And plainly mark their downward track to hell. 

Ah ! happy are they that die in their childhood. 

Their memory's with joy and their end is in bliss, 

For if there's an offering in Heaven accepted 

From Adam's curs'd seed 'tis an offering like this. 

26 



THE INFANTS GRAVE. 27 

For we still are deceived by the memory of child- 
hood, 

For youth has its pain that's unknown to age ; 

The thorns are all gone where the roses once stood, 

And onward are battles we dread to engage. 

Like the echo that reverberates from the mountain's 
rough border 

How sweetly it plays upon Fancy's pleased ear — 

Thus the scenes of our childhood by memory's re- 
corder 

Have sweetened ev'ry smile, and softened each tear. 



MARY C. DIKE. 

Here violent death has called forth violent grief ; 
And let them wail, if wailing gives relief — 
Let not their grief thy timeless mirth amuse, 
Or artless love " spelt by the unlettered muse." 



28 



JOHN R. PAXTON. 

As o'er the hill we bend our doubtful way, 

We pass where kindred bones now mouldering 

lay- 
But all are kindred, kindred to the dust. 
And worse than dust without that heavenly trust. 



MRS. MARY PAXTOK 

I WOULD weep for thee, Mary, 
But thou art happy now ; 

A spirit light and airy 

Tliouglit cannot mar thy brow. 

For thou art gone, Mary, 
And left this world behind ; 

Where sorrows only vary 
And cares oppress the mind. 

But we will meet again, Mary, 
And our kindred spirits dwell. 

Like the visions of a fairy 
And naught will break the spell. 



80 



CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 

How often memory throws its rays 
Back on our early childhood days — 
Beguiles our thoughts with painted joy, 
Nor aught is felt of life's alloy. 

But childish thoughts, and childhood's days 
Have had their joys and had their blaze, 
And toil began, and cares crept in. 
And selfish thoughts led on to sin. 

We plough with care, we sow with pride, 
Our pride increased with every stride ; 
The golden crops despise the plough 
Oh ! God in Heaven, protect us now. 



31 



THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 

What noble structures of human art on every side 
are spread 

Within this labyrinth of monuments, this city of the 
dead! 

But hark, I hear a toll, it is a funeral bell. 

It seems a warning spirit from yonder distant dell. 

We should not fear that warning, nor dread the con- 
queror's strife, 

For living in the fear of death is not the true end 
of life ; 

But listening to our conscience, let it direct our ways, 

Then happier shall pass our life ; in peace shall end 
our days. 

Solemn gloom, why do we dread the grave ? 

Fear we to rest where there's an arm to save ? 

A long dark passage to an unknown bourne, 

The cheerless prospect of a distant morn ? 

32 



THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. ^l 

The thoughts of death the bliss of life alloy ; 

Wrapt in himself man might himself destroy ; 

Forgetful still that life alone was given 

To smooth our path, and fit our soul for heaven ; 

In virtue's path will we our vigil keep, 

How many nights are crowned with downy sleep ! 

If for the soul we strive its health to save. 

May we not hope for comfort in the grave ? 

Swift flies the time when winged by silken joy, 

Ere dewy fogs the ambient air destroy ; 

But swifter far must be its flight in death 

As death is stiller than our vital breath. 



THE FUNERAL. 

Here comes a priest the funeral pomp to grace 

With costly scarf and sanctity of face. 

Oh ! holy men, can ye receive the gift 

Where poverty is making many a shift! 

Will ye still hover where the arrow sped, 

And stoop ignobly to despoil the dead! 

Ye, who to sorrow still might lend a charm, 

And bathe the wounded with a healing balm ! 

Here comes the hearse all blackened o'er with pall 

It is a mother that Heaven was pleased to call. 

Oh! holy name, —father, sister, brother, — 

All combined ye are much less than mother. 

Oh ! thou to whom we owe our very life, 

The kind protectress of our infant strife. 

And still through life our kind protectress found, 

All that's of thee must have a holy sound. 

Fortune sets mad the world with hate or fame ; 

But still the mother ever is the same. 

84 



THE FUNERAL. 35 

Oh! what a loss at any age is this ! 

To youth how needful, and to age what bliss. 

To have a mother living to engage 

The kind affection due her wasting age. 

Though thy dead mother may rejoicing be, 

Yet, little children, I would weep for thee, 

For well I know that when those eyes were sealed 

Thou bore a wound that never can be healed. 

So must it be ; and we must learn to bend. 

Thankful that mem'ry still some joy can lend. 

Through the long train there's many a coach at- 

tends 
That bears its burden, but that bears no friends. 
They came to ride, or came the time to wile, 
And in their joy cannot suppress the smile. 
No stranger's tears need on the bier attend. 
Nor secret sighing aid a weeping friend — 
But smile not here, lest in some coming hour 
Ye want those smiles that then will mock your 

power. 



THE KEEPER'S LODGE. 

Turn from these tombs and yonder cottage view 

With battened sides rough as the forest grew ; 

Not to decay nor of a human plan ; 

It seems of nature an older growth than man. 

And that old bell that hangs in yonder tower 

Tolls o'er the dead with more than mortal power, 

And warns sublime, if warning we will hear, 

To live in justice, and our Maker fear. 

Still, as I hear that solemn knell, 

It has a thrilling, deep'ning sound ; 

It does the fading memory swell 

Of friends that lie beneath the ground. 

To keep the pass an ancient figure bends. 

Like fancied Peter on the gate attends. 

Now turn'd this cot, this loveliness I leave, 

To plunge 'mid death and revel as I grieve. 



36 



LAMENTATION. 

Oh ! brilliant genius still consign'd, 
It works upon the thoughtful mind 
To see the choice of death. 

The brightest fire is soonest laid, 
The fairest flower is first to fade, 
The sweet, the shortest breath. 

The lilies, blooming sweet and fair, 
With fragrance load the ambient air, 
And all their charms confess. 

All feel the rapture of delight, 

The transport of the sense and sight, 

And none would wish it less. 

Yet all that joyous scent and bloom, 
Is but its passage to the tomb — 
The onward march of death. 

The mind is but a burning flame. 

Though bright it sparkles into fame, 

Must die at every breath. 
37 



THE BEGGAR. 

What ghastly form has caught my pitying eyes. 
Nor worth, nor merit, in his cause replies. 
With liquid fire his half-clad limbs would warm. 
By heaven forsook to ruin nature's form. 
For such as these oft charity deceives, 
And such alone the generous man relieves ; 
Where merit pines she trusts no sordid powers ; 
'Tis for a nobler heart and freer hand than ours. 
But try not these by men's severest laws, 
For Heaven in mercy long has judged thy cause. 



38 



THE CURSE OF INTEMPERANCE. 

Ah ! worse than war, more fatal to the soul, 

That still deceiving, ever-maddening bowl ! 

The widow groans, the suffering orphan cries, 

The shrewd grow rich where reckless folly flies : 

The inebriate's drink can drown his grief as well 

As sin on earth can pay the debt of hell ; 

Their health destroyed, their blameless offspring 

dooms. 
And fill our graveyards with their early tombs. 
Yet there are they who advocate its cause. 
And call it good that wars with nature's laws. 
What wretched want, what damning sins we see. 
Is easy traced, curst Alcohol to thee. 
It slacks our nerves, and lumbers up our course, 
And brings old age with double speed and force. 

Still round the tour the fairest tombs display, 

Like the bright honors of the milky way. 

89 



BAY GROVE HILL. 

While o'er the tombs I see yon prospect smile, 
Here will I pause, and pausing muse the while. 
A pleasing sight to see those stately sail — 
The peaceful nation's voluntary bail. 



40 



REFLECTIONS ON THE WICKEDNESS OP 
NEW YORK. 

Though freighted with the commerce of all crime, 
And so it's been from record's earliest time, 
From port to port they ride the world around, 
And bless and curse where'er they touch the ground. 
Oh, City of my birth, could virtue see 
The crime, the folly rooted deep in thee. 
The midnight revel, and the rambler's den. 
Those scenes of whoredom, and of wicked men, 
Those shudd'ring scenes would drive her from your 

strand, 
And in her fright scarce raise a helping hand. 
Now one black scene stands pictured to my view, 
The scene all fancy, but the fancy true : — 
In a back hall, an alley leads the way, 
Remote from justice, and shut out from day. 
Careless alike if passing night or day 
The eager gambler feasts upon his prey ; 

41 



42 ON THE WICKEDNESS OF NEW YORK. 

All pale, the youth would from his power be free ; 
Too weak for conquest, and too spent to flee ; 
'Tis not enough his pockets he would drain, 
But sends him out to seek unlawful gain. 
He goes unwilling, but with hope to shun 
The punishment for crimes already done. 
Till, stumbling short, his arrant course is run ; 
The wretched mother mourns her ruined son. 
Thus folly leads and vice pursues the way. 
And night will shield those deeds too dark for day, 
Till Truth breaks in, and, with his arm of might, 
Dispels those clouds, and rears his throne of right. 

Sad is the thought, but would I alter ? Oh ! no ! 
Too loath we are to leave this world of woe, 
Where all are sinners, sinners from our birth. 
And all must sin while journeying here on earth. 
For social laws draw men into a throng 
And selfish rights makes each his fellow wrong. 

Those few hours to virtue given. 

Are like the gems that shine in heaven, 

And own their Deity ; 

As swift around his throne they fly, 



ON THE WICKEDNESS OF NEW YOBK. 43 

Yet how small the space wherein they lie 
Compared with all the sky ! 

Should Heaven in vengeance wreak its wrath again, 
This might be found a City of the Plain. 
But stay thine arm, Oh, Heavenly Father, spare ! 
Think of the babes, remember Nineveh. 



WILLIAM BURBANK. 

Who reared this haughty obelisk on high ? 
It mocks at death and would insult the sky. 
Could ye not show him in an humbler form, 
Who fell the victim of a raging storm, 
Where Duston's * worth and valor could not save, 
But still pursued him to his very grave? 
But the dear man who now we hope's in bliss, 
'Tis well to know he had no hand in this. 

* While they were carrying Captain Duston, who commanded 
the steamer in which Burbank was lost, there came up a most 
violent squall. 



44 



DE WITT CLINTON. 

Heee rests awhile within this vault, 
A statesman that could never halt ; 
Is this the end of thy desire, 
Poor ashes of ambitious fire ? 
The evil still pursues thy name, 
The good forgets to give thee fame ; 
Too loud thy foes while yet they live 
Who thou in life their due could give ; 
But, as the smouldering ember dies, 
Thy faults shall sink, thy fame shall rise. 
And with its brazen throat shall sound 
A blast to ring the world around — 
A monument that's all thy own 
Not like the silent mossy stone. 
Defying Time's corroding power. 
And blooming like a heavenly flower. 



45 



VIRGINIA MINGARY * 

This obelisk confesses causeless fright, 

The rage of fear, and ruin's mad delight ; 

Prudence is wisdom when not turned to fear, 

But fear is ruin in its mad career. 

He early took them that so lately gave ; 

Short from the womb he rock'd them to the grave. 

I think I hear ye ask. Why all these babes ; 

Mad unbelief ! have filled these early graves ? 

But, curious man, what would ye not know 

Of ill ; nor think of good the Heavens bestow. 

Alike in youth, alike in age. 

Alike the scholar and the sage ! 

This warning dire should warn us all 

That death on any soon may call. 

* A false alarm of fire in school caused the death of these 
children and about seventy others. 



46 



DR. WAINWRIGHT. 

See yonder tabular that stands below 
Foolhardy madness in a man does show, 
Who sported with poison, tampered with a snake, 
And fooled his life with nothing good at stake. 



47 



CHAKLOTTE CANDA. 

Turn'd to the left, I seek the intricate round, 

Where Charlotte Canda decorates the ground, 

Like Sirius, fairest of the starry line. 

Yet death seems setting on that heavenly shrine ; 

All tombs around are in its splendor lost, 

And all must bow before its mighty cost. 

Yet who would envy, who would take her place, 

Though not possessed of any wealth or grace. 

The dread of pain, tenacity of life. 

Increase with woe, and feed on mortal strife ; 

In vain the roses round her bloom. 

Vain may the polished marble shine. 

In vain the sculptured image show 

Charlotte in life almost divine. 

Still all is night beneath the gorgeous tomb, 

And the black grave wears the same dismal gloom. 

Thou lovely flower, too delicate for earth, 
'Tis only strange such beauty here had birth ; 
Supine it fell before the autumnal blast 

To rise to Heaven when wintry storms have passed. 

48 



SAMUEL D. SCUDDER. 

Short was thy mission, blameless child of God. 
Weep, Ceylon weep, o'er Greenwood's greedy sod, 
The grave thy cradle for thy rest on earth, 
Thy tomb a manger for celestial birth. 
Thy education fits thee for the sky, 
'Twas not in vain it taught thee how to die. 
Heaven's true wealth beyond false fortune lies. 
Men may grow great but never can grow wise ; 
Wealth and honor may conspire in vain 
To seize by force what humbler mortals gain. 
Fortune, oft false, was not to him untrue. 
And fame, unsought, a wreath upon him threw. 



49 



RICHARDSON. 

Yon gloomy pillar through the thickets lower, 
And seems the relic of a stone of power. 
To Odin's praise by rude barbarians given, 
As dark and cheerless as their hope of Heaven. 



50 



THE VOLUNTEER OFFICERS. 

Are these the conquerors, this the trophy gave ? 
They fought for glory, and they won a grave : 
Such fate awaits those chiefs that love to roam, 
And deal destruction to a happy home. 



51 



BATTLE HILL. 

But once these hills were stained with guiltless 

blood, 
Such blood and tears as made a second flood ; 
What time the British legions trod our shore, 
And filled Columbia's blameless land with gore. 
To arms ! to arms ! the fervent patriot cried, 
To arms ! to arms ! the generous youth replied ; 
From every hill the clamorous sounds arise, 
" And the long peals ran echoing through the 

skies — " 

The gray-haired veteran, and the man of God, 

The polished scholar and the clownish clod, 

All side by side join in the common cause 

To save their country, and their country's laws : 

Themselves the bulwark tyrants would destroy, 

And won the freedom which we now enjoy. 

Though many a soldier found an early grave, 

Heaven sent a man our bleeding land to save — 

62 



BATTLE HILL. 53 

Brave as Achilles, as Ulysses wise, 

With Hector's virtues, to complete the prize ; 

His country's father, freedom's dearest son, 

Beloved by all, immortal Washington : 

He in the breeze, bade our proud banners fly, 

And war-worn veterans shouted victory. 

They know alone what freedom cost, 

Who fought in many a battle lost ; 

And, wearied, turned and fought again. 

And saw their brethren bite the phiin. 

Desponding, wrecked, despoiled and driven. 

They met at length the smiles of Heaven ; 

Then fled or fell the hireling slave, 

Even then they feared a freeman's grave ; 

They drove their standards from the land. 

And saw them drooping leave the strand : 

Tall ships they reared, and their victorious stars. 

To grace the Heavens waves o'er their giant spars. 



MY COUNTRY'S FLAG. 

Paul Jones, the first who reared those stripes on 

high, 
Mid shouting sailors, and a smiling sky; 
Down came the stars, a voluntary aid, 
And lent them lustre, and their Tribute paid. 



54 



A. L. F. COWDREY. 

Hebe lies a man, one of a generous crew, 
To duty prompt, to noble passions true, 
His ardent breast, urged on by strong desire. 
Has spent its rage, to check the rage of fire ; 
His weeping friends and comrades held most dear 
All bruised and mangled brought his body here, 
Far from the noise, the bustle, and the strife, 
And all those scenes he held so dear in life. 



55 



SAMUEL J. GILLESPIE. 

Come view this tomb, this emblem scan, 
The watchful dog, the faithful friend of man, 
With more than reason does his patience burn, 
And burns for him that never can return. 



56 



THE PILOT. 

Now round and round unwilling are we bore, 

O'er length of ground that we have trod before, 

Determined thus the like mishap to shun, 

At every turn we watch the lowering sun, 

Till through the trees at distance we can spy, 

A stately tomb high towering to the sky — 

His tomb our guide whom friendship has placed 

o'er 

A much-loved pilot, but a guide no more ; 

By angry Neptune's reckless wrath decreed, 

Nor mortals could, nor Jove would intercede — 

O'erpowering storms and tempests gathered o'er. 

And wrecked and ruined on a well-known shore. 

For he who strove while others quaked for fear. 

And died for strangers — strangers shed a tear. 

O reckless death, on total ruin bent. 

Men at thy call are from their duty sent ; 

57 



58 THE PILOT. 

But if to honor you can build up fame, 

To die on duty is the noblest name. 

But why will men thus hardy strive to live, 

Where their best fortune naught but life can give ; 

Man, vain boaster, must yield when fate has sent, 

And learn to bow to power that can't relent ; 

And oft it haps the proudest ones we see 

Bending beneath a blind fatality : 

Yet some would flee, and others trembling wait 

The soft still voice that warns them of their fate. 



VICTOR MARCET. 

Thus did Victor stand upon the brink, 
And see his comrades sporting in the brine, 

Full well he knew it was his fate to sink, 
And that no arm could check the power divine. 

Yet in an unguarded evil hour, 

He fell the victim of the threatening power. 

Full many a squall without a cloud. 

Strikes when our sails are spread. 
While oft those ones that threaten loud. 

Burst harmless o'er our head. 
To think, to talk, may be the part of man 
His actions all are of some heavenly plan. 



59 



TRUE HAPPINESS. 

Oh, life, thou path of rocks and thorns, 
Or vainly struggling 'gainst the tide, 

Man ever o'er his folly mourns, 
And only seeks the port of pride. 

Oh, could ye take what fortune yields, 
And bless the bounteous hand that gives. 

For know what nature never shields, 
That thing with comfort never lives. 

In joyous youth, in age serene. 
There's bliss in ev'ry peaceful scene, 
In ev'ry age and state there's pain. 
Where rage and discord hold their reign. 

There's grandeur in the storm ; 

There's beauty in the shower ; 

There's loveliness amid the tears, 

Of sorrow's pensive hour. 
60 



TRUE HAPPINESS. 61 

There's naught so innocent on earth, 

That is not mixed with gall ; 
Even dewdrops hanging on the leaves, 

May wet you if they fall. 

True happiness is in the mind, 

Nor can it dwell away, 
Dark discontent may gather clouds, 

O'er natures sunniest day. 

'Tis death not life that brought me here to sing. 
The sudden change might break the tuneful string. 



GEORGE AND ALBERT SWAN. 

What constellation breaks upon my sight, 
Their emblem's shining with an equal light ; 
In equal love and rival bloom they seem, 
Like the lov'd brothers of the Spartan Queen. 
Sleep! brothers, sleep! glad memory with thy 

youth, 
And shed a light o'er honor, love and truth. 



62 



MOSES KIMBALL* 

Behold again we meet another tomb, 

Of that dire storm that fill'd our land with gloom ; 

How few escape destruction's deadly bows, 

And pass unharmed this world of many woes ; 

Yet there's consolation 'mid that solemn gloom, 

To lay them decent in the funeral tomb. 

Consign their spirits to a heavenly trust, 

And mix their ashes with its parent dust. 

'Twixt the soul and the body there's still an affinity. 

Though the one is all carnal and the other divinity. 

As the soul pants for Heaven, so the heart pants for 

earth. 
Each for the place that it claims for its birth. 
'Tis the instinct of life, by nature 'tis given. 
Dust unto dust, and spirit to heaven. 

* Lost in the storm with Captain Duston on the Steamer 
Atlantic : 

63 



COZZENS. 

Nor yet unseen must we desert the place 

Where stands a monument possess'd of every grace ; 

These angel forms to fancy only known, 

Here seem to breathe upon this sculptured stone. 

This skilful draft, though well it please the eye, 

Yet may it not offend the Deity ? 

Though some good angel bids the spirit fly, 

Leave earth and seek the regions of the sky, 

Yet be this truth a revelation known, 

111 sets a spirit on a sombre stone. 

By various turns we seek the tower again. 

To gain a prospect of the distant main. 



64 



JOHN M. BRUCE. 

And here's, my friends, an empty tomb 
Where death has never cast a gloom ; 
For virtues tried he's blessed with life, 
Who calmly bore the business strife ; 
And may no troubled sea invade, 
Till calm he lies in Greenwood shade. 



66 



OCEAN HILL. 

Delightful spot ! favor'd of Heaven ! 

What health, what strength m every breeze is given ; 

Here heavenly showers their fertile influence pour, 

And ocean's briny arms wash clean the shore ; 

Favor'd of Jove, what beauties here are spread, 

Fit place to live seems fit to lay the dead : 

Oh ! shudd'ring thought, beneath the miry sod. 

Sacred alone to some infernal god. 

To lay our friends where the muddy wave 

In wintry tempests 'mid the valleys rave. 

There fever reigns, health shuns the morbid spot, 

And all that's human feels the canker rot ; 

Who from such fate would not their body save ? 

'Tis death to think of filling such a grave. 

But here all fear, all loathing here has fled, 

We seek a sweet communion with the dead. 

And as we read on each historic tomb 

We'd have them answer from their solemn gloom. 

66 



FAMILY BURYING-GROUNDS. 

On their own farms some choose to rest then- bones 
(Nor think how few of parents' farms their children 

owns) ; 
For this they choose some lone sequester'd hill, 
Too drear for prospect, and too poor to till ; 
There frisking lambs dance at the close of day, 
Or sporting heifers tear the sod away ; 
Brambles and briers with tall weeds o'ergrown, 
And sunken graves is all of them that's known ; 
Their sacred memory can no more prevail ; 
They live in fancy of some ghostly tale ; 
The grudging ploughman craves the ground to till, 
And grubs intrusive round the wasting hill; 
Still sets his coulter towards the lessening mound, 
'Till leaning tombstones tumble on the ground, 
No more o'er graves they fill with sacred awe, 

But serve for stepstones at the invader's door, 

67 



68 FAMILY BUEYING-GROUNDS. 

Thus every trace ere long shall pass away — 
Their sacred memory and their wasting clay. 

As far from this hill I can see o'er the plain. 
So boundless its glory and long be its reign ; 
And soon my dear country exulting shall be 
The joy of the land, and the pride of the sea. 
A nation of learning, a nation sublime, 
A nation of grandeur, a nation of crime. 



THE INDIAN SPIRIT. 

Yet in time what we are (how strange does it seem) 

In history's page shall appear but a dream ; 
And they of this land that now hold the sway, 
Shall be number'd with those that have long 
passed away. 
Where millions now live there may famish a few, 
And the hunter again the lost chase shall renew : 
Let me sing when a boy, how my young fancy stray'd, 
'Twas a vision of ghosts, but I was not afraid. 

A spirit came and sat o'er the grave, 

Where his fathers were gathered, and his bones 

had been laid ; 

And he saw that the white man no relic would save 

Nor respect to his nation or kindred had paid ; 

And he rejoiced when he thought that their spirits 

were free. 

And none were there left, their bondsmen to be ; 

69 



70 THE INDIAN SPIRIT. 

But still might they rove over desert and wild, 
The lovers of freedom, and nature's own child. 

And nobly he thought they had played out their part, 
Those old debts of vengeance they had honestly 

paid; 
And friendship and gratitude those friends of the 

heart. 
That an Indian forgot, it ne'er could be said ; 
And calmly he looked on the Great Spirit's plan, 
How each race in their turn can reach but their 

span, 
And the soil that had borne his had taken its clay 
And the Spirit that sent them had swept them away. 

And the paleface had come and filled up their place, 

And palaces built and torn up the soil. 
Even Indian graves the last trace of his race, 

And seek for no pleasure but the curses of toil. 
And he pitied the white man who grovels from birth, 
Slaves by their nature must still rend the earth, 
And he would not have changed his wild spirit so 

free, 
For the life of a white man, though the noblest 
could be. 



DAVID HALE. 

This name alone might o'er the heart prevail, 
Thy kinsman's memory honors David Hale ; 
Nor less thy sternness than the chief who fell, 
To know thy virtues, they must know thee well ; 
Oft underneath a crusty hard exterior, 
The heart is tender, kind, true, superior. 

The subtle false heart is always smooth. 
The slime that poisons first the victim soothes ; 
This stern dark stone is well erected here, 
Its strength and grandeur triumph over fear ; 
To virtue true o'er truth he held a rod, 
" An honest man the noblest work of God." 



71 



REV. DAVID ABEEL. 

Joy to that soul that sought to bless mankind, 
The only tie that here on earth could bind ; 
Thy fervent spirit would not let thee rest, 
Forever wandering and forever bless'd 
Oh ! yet awhile may thy good spirit rove 
And aid the mission of the man of love. 

And now before my feasting eyes. 

Rich prospects spread around 
The teeming fields with verdure green, 

The sea with vessels crowned. 

The birds have all returned again. 

And music fills the plain, 
How blest are they — they know no past, 

Nor dread the future pain. 

By yonder tomb there stands a tree, 

Its blooming roses to display, 
But on that plant you cannot see 

The roses that have passed away. 

72 



FREDERIC PLACE. 

But what is this that I behold ? 

What ruin do I see? 
The broken column that marks the grave 

Of a friend. Oh, sacred name to me ! 

Upon its sides are marked around, 

To show his friends lie near; 
A few short months have swept away, 

All that his heart held dear. 

But one I see they have not mark'd 
Though memory dims with years, 

Still round the mind forever clings 
What youth to us endears. 

Frederic, long departed boy, 

Companion of my early joy — 

Thy youth, thy beauty, and thy wit 

Like distant meteors dimly flit. 
73 



OlSr THE DEATH OF EMMA MOTT. 

Oft have I seen my dearest friends depart, 
And whilst I mourned received a second dart. 

Of late the heart has been severely tried, 
And can it be the accomplished Emma died ? 
This warning gloom is Heaven's gentlest sign 

A gnomen set to cast a shade on time. 

Ye winds that o'er old Ocean roar, 
Sigh when ye reach yon pensive shore, 

Ye fields, how can ye smile? 
Long may the billows lash the shore 
In mournful dirge, for now no more 

Fair Emma glads thine isle. 

Since Emma joined the sacred dead, 

Xanthus, half thy grace has fled ; 

All that to Heaven belongs. 
74 



ON THE DEATH OF EMMA MOTT. 75 

She fell as budding roses turns, 
When hot the summer solstice burns, 
And their young beauty wrongs. 

Ah! life, how transient is thy bliss ! 
How many shocks we feel like this ! 

How false is all the show ! 
All that is lovely in its birth, 
Leaves this sombre, cheerless earth. 

Just as its charms we know. 

But why complain of what is given. 

Of seed that makes a growth for Heaven, 

That takes no dross of earth : 
For God is good for all he gives, 
And would that every soul that lives 

Should profit by its birth. 

Then, Emma, go in beauty's power, 
And seek that amaranthine bower ; 

And join those angel girls ; 
For what were Heaven with all its bliss 
If it were not for gifts like this — 

Such tributes from its worlds. 



JONATHAN GOODHUE. 

How swarmed with goodness, here our neighbor 

lies, 
Neighbor to all, and kindred to the skies. 
Not superbly great, but most supremely good, 
Through a long life his sacred honor stood, 
By wealth and fortune, severest test, was tried. 
He lived respected, and lamented died. 

Farewell the prospect of the distant round, 
Our business now is with the adjacent ground. 



76 



NEW GROUND. 



DETACHED THOUGHT. 



Scatter'd more wide the cheerless tombs are seen, 
And pleasing nature spreads a brighter scene ; 
Amid these tombs still must I turn to man, 
And various thoughts arising, let me scan : 
What sudden change, just there fair Science teem, 
Still law is here, and law will rule supreme ; 
Man left to nature lives by natural laws. 
The social man to fellows pleads his cause; 
All rul'd by laws, but rul'd in different ways. 
And only happy where the conscience sways. 
With wary hand deal out a freeman's power 
Lest ye may rue it in a trying hour, 
For some to rage, and some to love a fool. 
Who rules himself, alone is fit to rule. 
Supremely selfish ev'ry man is right. 

And till he's vanquished glories in his might. 

77 



78 NEW GROUND, 

In ev'ry age he boasts superior skill, 

Still man is man, and so he ever will ; 

Nor less his strength, nor of degenerate size. 

To silence truth they balance equal lies : 

See where he liv'd, and what his labors wrought, 

His strength and talent by those proofs are sought. 

If here he lacks, then there the proof is given 

And ever thus he keeps the balance even. 

Oh ! man to savage nature prone, 
For culture yet how rich a plot — 
Thy cultured pride oft makes thee groan, 
And savage worth is oft forgot. 

How soon are favors all forgot, 
How deep the impression of a wrong — 
Friendship seems but a selfish plot, 
Deep wounds contempt as life is long. 

To culture man, man has the power. 
For vernal showers his growth prepare. 
And most we love that tender flower. 
That only grows with toil and care. 

Oh ! feeble art, how fruitless is thy strife 
When frugal nature will not warm to life ; 



NEW GROUND. 79 

In vain we seek, in vain we strive to know ; 
What from our fellows may spontaneous flow. 

Consign each one unto his place, 
And let him fill that place with grace, 
To war with nature's laws 'twere vain — 
"When God makes laws, those laws will reign. 
Full many a rock by sculptor soiled, 
That might have made a corner stone. 
Material waste, and labor spoiled. 
And all too late the folly known. 

If study charms thee pleasing is the toil, 
But care is needful or ye'll wear the soil. 
Spend not your toil where adverse fate oppose, 
Nor seek to give what Heaven alone bestows. 
In a rich field may grow a barren tree, 
Robbing the soil of its fertility : 
While sprouting from bri'ry hedge I've known 
The clust'ring fruit, culture would proudly own. 
On coarsest spray the richest flowers may grow, 
And the fine leaf may scarcely own a blow. 
Ah! why will death such victims proudly seek — ■ 
J^nough the simple, and enough the weak, 



80 NEW GBOUND. 

But can the flowers their fragrance yield, 
And not their atoms cast away ? 
Can the rich harvest coat the field, 
And draw no substance from the clay ? 
Thus active minds must quickly pass away 
Like kindling fires that brighten to decay. 

Not always worth, but weakness oft 

To early ruin tends. 
And self esteem attains a height 

Where ridicule suspends. 

Claiming talent none can see. 

Or merit none can find. 
That sheds a feeble ray within 

To dazzle their own mind. 

Thus they who vainly seek for fame, 

Will meet a just reward, 
And perish with their own esteem 

Without one echoing chord. 

Thus with embittering chagrin, 
And wrath they leave the world ; 

To pine unheeded and unseen. 
Where merit oft is hurled. 



NEW GROUND, 81 

Some early find the covering, grave, 

And some their folly weep — 
While some throw back those blunted darts 

That wounded them so deep. 

Heed not this smooth and flattering world, 

Flattery will only foil ; 
But when thy work is weighed with gold, 

There's merit in thy toil. 

Oft man's the author of his own woe, 

With his own hand he deals the inflicting blow. 

Self-tortured, writhing, suffering, grieved, 

And blames the world that he is not relieved ; 

N"or reason ask to seek an easier plan, 

But passions rage and swallow up the man. 

Still o'er new grounds we bend our way, 

As yet unsettl'd by the dead ; 
Who yet in life may storm awhile, 

Ere their journeying spirits have fled. 

But ah ! in life, oft worse than death, 

A thousand ills pour in. 

Man not only suffers for his own 

But for his fellow's sin. 
6 



82 NEW GBOUND. 

Our dearest joys, our dearest ties, 

They reckless cut away. 
And in a moment cause a wound 

That will not heal for aye. 

Offc some fell demon, arbiter of strife, 
Bursts friendship's bands — the dearest gems of life ; 
And lying scandal, or more dangerous truth. 
Cut loose those links so dear to generous youth. 

Slaves, hell-bent in mischief, each a host. 
In things they are least concern'd they meddle most ; 
Alert to harm they play their dev'lish part 
Without one virtuous spark to warm the heart. 

Nor seize we joy, or joy it seems. 

But restless still we roam ; 
All the gain our journey proves 

If this is not our home. 

Oh ! ever restless evil man. 

How fruitless is thy toil, — 
Ere yet ye've gathered in the crop 

You turn it in the soil. 

The pursuit of pleasure is alone its gain, 
Too oft pursuing what must end in pain ; 



NEW GROUND. 83 

The soul arises with the coming chase, 
The looked-for pleasure when we end the race. 
Though still receding still we press the more, 
We grasp the jewel and it shines no more. 

'Tis thus the hunter can the chase enjoy 

O'er hedge and ditch, and standing crops destroy — 

Till fall'n at length, he sees the vanquished prize ; 

The noble stag rolls up his dying eyes, 

The hunter feels, and all his pleasure dies. 

But still there's joy amid our chosen friends. 
On honest friendship lasting bliss attends ; 
This is for all, for every man may find 
One that admires with a congenial mind. 

There is no clime all crops will suit, 

Nor any culture all will tend — 
But barren the soil that bears no fruit. 

And cold the man that has no friend. 

Choose not a friend that will thy substance crave. 
Be a true friend, but never be a slave ; 
Nor high, nor low, but choose an equal grade, 
To burden not, or not to go unpaid : 



84 NEW GROUND. 

With even scale let open favors swing 
Nor deal out justice with a secret spring. 

Oh, thou who think'st thy fate severely hard, 
Because some cloud obscures a brightening day, 

Thinkest thou that Heaven will show thee more 
regard, 
And all the schemes of nature disarray ? 

Think not creation was alone for you, 
Thou art but part of a stupendous plan ; 

'Twas made for Csesar and the sparrows too, 

And worlds on worlds, too much for man to scan. 

Nor is misfortune often what it seems. 
And man to want and misery left forlorn, 

Our dull minds ill search for heavenly schemes. 
Our greatest ills are blessings nobly borne. 

Man's but a wave on the ocean of time, 
A speck on the shore, a note in the chime, 
A link in the chain, a part of the whole. 
And countless the value of one precious soul. 

But small, ah, small ! is that being and soul. 

To the Power that creates and moveth the whole ; 



NEW GROUND. 85 

Man's but speck to the earth, what's the earth to 

the sun ? 
And wide over space does Sol's system run ; 

Yet farther in space and twinkling around 
Is the glory of glories, the bright stars abound ; 
Yet far, far into space, where the vision seems lost, 
And the sight and the mind into chaos are tossed — 

There myriads of worlds seem clouding the space. 
Like specks tossed chaotic, and seeking their place; 
There whole stellar systems seem but begun 
And creation proceeding ad infinitum ; 
Great God! O forgive me if man has a weight. 
Ye heaven of heavens, what then's thy estate ? 



DR. MITCHELL. 

Here ends this farce : how much this road, like man, 

Still leading onward ends where it began I 

How much like life this consecrated ground ! 

Though on we drive still must we come around. 

In vain we halt, in vain we strive to fly. 

There lies the goal, and there our course must lie ; 

Restless rovers struggling from the womb. 

To end our struggle in the silent tomb. 

And few in life that bears a common name, 

Is worth resounding through the trump of fame. 

But here lies one for whom she blew a blast, 

Nor can it be without a tribute passed. 

Clio, beloved of all the sacred nine, 

Thy tablet fill upon this honored shrine ; 

Courted by nobles and beloved by kings, 

And this the glory that their honor brings. 

86 



DB. MITCHELL. 87 

Yet science claims thee, bids thee live a name, 
With zealous Priestley blundering up to fame, 
A pleasing, trifling, yet a thoughtful sage, 
A blaze of glory sinking into age. 



CHANCELLOR KENT. 

Heee lies the great, a clever man lies here, 
The Judge of judges bids the judge appear ; 
A sapient jurist, and a generous man, 
Thy virtues known, thy talent who could scan ? 



88 



HARPERS. 

Heee's a band of brothers, do not fear, 
These social men not yet are here ; 
They yet awhile have parts to play 
And brighten many a gloomy day. 



89 



GERMAN GROUNDS. 

Far from his home the wandering German lies — 

'Tis freedom's home, the living brother cries ; 

Who just escaped the tyrant's iron grasp 

Would in his arms the enchanting goddess clasp, 

And thinks fair freedom's soil may lighter tread. 

And softer lie upon her noble dead, 

And feels in freedom more content to die 

Than live in chains from whence he had to fly. 

'Tis hard for man to leave his native land 

And seek a dwelling on a foreign strand, 

But naught compared with those brave souls of 

yore 
Who built their homes upon a hostile shore. 



90 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Ha ! who can tell the suffering of that band 

Who first set foot on wild New England's strand? 

With solemn look the fathers stand 

Around their new-made brother's grave, 
'Tis in a free but foreign land 

And death that liberty to crave. 

Yet would they rather fill that grave 

Than tyrants dread or curse their God — 

The master there can find no slave, 
But turns in horror from the sod. 

They thought who next of them should fall, 
Their friends an ample grave would heap, 

They thought the summons was for all, 
And only for the last would weep. 



91 



PUBLIC LOTS. 

Still as we drive full many a grave we pass 
Till grave to grave join in one common mass ; 
Here the long lines of heaped-up earth do wave, 
There the deep trench shows it one common grave. 
The mean canaille there toils for strengthening 

bread, 
And like the falcon feasts upon the dead. 
The curling smoke around his nostrils play 
And in low joking pass the hours away. 

So let it be, still may their hearts be glad. 
Till crushing fortune bids the soul be sad ; 
For they can feel who rough in every way, 
Roughly does sorrow o'er their bosom play. 



92 



PIERO MARONCELLI. 

But mid these ridges of the vulgar dead, 
Beloved of fame, Piero's may be read. 
Who, doomed in chains of misery to stand 
For Europe's sin, for loving his dear land : 
Him to the furies heartless tyrants gave. 
Till pitying fortune the poor wretch would save. 
The butcher'd body strength enough did crave 
To guide it hobbling to a freeman's grave. 

Funereal honors or the costly tomb 
Could not repay the patriot for his doom ; 
Yet there are those who meaner parts did play. 
With tombs resplendent as the God of day. 



93 



ITALY. 

Fair Italy, thou fairy-land of flowers, 
III sets the wreath upon a tyrant's brow, 

Thou still art lovely in declining hours. 
Hast thou no Cincinnatus at the plough ? 

Not vain for thee the patriot's blood shall flow 

Thy fattened soil the stouter hearts shall grow. 



94 



AN INVECTIVE AGAINST TYRANNY. 

Does Europe's rulers murmur at our slaves ? 

Who would not give to freemen quiet graves? 

Men w^ith nature undisputed as their own, 

Oppressed, trod down, nor pitied when they groan. 

And yet the echo of a groan would make you grieved 

Turn to your homes, begin ye to relieve. 

You dogs dressed in your gold and scarlet coats 

To bark at freemen with your brazen throats ; 

With simoon breath to blight fair freedom's tree, 

All men are selfish, most supremely ye. 

We know your object, what you hope to gain, 

So hold your peace, your labor all is vain. 

He that would scourge asks not if black or white, 

Strength is his guide, he looks not to the right : 

Ours is a wrong, a more than crying shame. 

Sent by your fathers, those you would not blame ! 

But still go on oppressing all you can, 

While we have freedom for your meanest man. 

95 



DINAH DEPUY. 

Here lies a saint though born a slave 
None will deny the freedom of the grave ; 
Her mortal frame may moulder here away 
But heaven has claim'd what never will decay. 
Who has not found in humble life, 

Where heavens ethereal embers burn'd, 
Such noble spirits never were, 

Nor never can to dust be turn'd. 



96 



FOUNTAIN HILL. 

The fount of life in fields of death 
The many distant rills supplying; 

How much like life its stay is breath, 
And flows no more at breath's denying. 



97 



THE FIREMEN'S MONUMENT. 

No more the bell awakes the strong desire, 
Then- ashes now contain no living fire ; 
Nor think with pain or pride the perils past, 
But wait unconscious for the trumpet's blast. 

Such men are ours that rather die than yield 

Their country's bulwark, and their country's shield ; 

Yet need restraint ; their passions uncontrolled 

Are fierce, vindictive, virulent, and bold ; 

Their swelling veins if maddened let to go 

Would run to riot and nefarious woe ; 

But to fairly govern and to justly please. 

Our country's fortune much depends on these, 

That power that brings such blessings to our hand, 

And wafts in safety o'er the smiling land, 

If reckless fed, and raised beyond control. 

Will burst in fury and destroy the whole. 

98 



THE FIREMEN'S MONUMENT. \ 

Thus plebeian power to nature ever true, 
It built up Rome, and Rome it overthrew. 

It tyrants check'd, and oft would tyrants slay, 
But knew no bounds, and madden'd in decay. 
'Tis not for all each secret art to scan, 
The arm that labors seldom lays the plan ; 
Each in their place must play their several parts. 
What best befits of Science, or of arts ; 
Each in his place exalts his nation's might. 
And there alone his nation wills his right ; 
With equal check each feels a just control. 
And virtue reigns to harmonize the whole. 



THE EVIL OP INSUBORDINATION. 

Forgive the o'erflowing of an ardent breast, 

With manly strength, and generous heart possessed. 

They mix what's great and what's weak in man 

Angels can pity, devils never can, 

Stern moralist, hast thou not felt the passion strong 

within 
Thy vanquish'd breast that tempts a man to sin ? 
Then why condemn the youth who chance to trip 
When better fortune would not let thee slip ? 
Too cold for love, thy bosom's feast is hate ; 
Thy rancor'd breast thy prowling cannot sate. 



100 



CONCLUSION. 

But noiseless time is stealing on 

That wears this life away, 
And bids the subtle spirit fly 

And leaves its worn and worthless clay. 

Then we must still be journeying on, 

Nor waste that time in song. 
Though in sweet communion with the dead 

A few short hours belong. 

The tombs are past, my song is spent 

This day remember'd be. 
While side by side I drive with time 

Till death shall set me free. 

Adieu ! ye gates, and consecrated ground ; 

Adieu 1 ye hills, and shadowy vales around ; 

Adieu ! ye monuments, ye dead, farewell — 

A short farewell, then with you I will dwell. 
101 



CONCLUDING ELEGY. 

I HAVE not toiled to build up fame, 
Nor sought for earthly praise ; 

The gifts the world bestows with fame 
Are envy and delays, 

But as the songster warbling forth 
In sunshine and in shades ; 

Would shun the noisy blast of fame 
Which solitude invades. 

The easy, humble, quiet life 

I hope for is the best ; 
And free from pain I hope to gain 

A place where I may rest. 

When you behold my mossy grave, 

Who chance to pass along. 

As I thought of the sacred dead, 

Think of the child of song. 
102 



CONCLUDING ELEGY. 103 

Nor hide my faults, for faults I have, 

And they are not a few ; 
I only boast an honest heart 

That's tender, kmd, and true. 

When gentle zephyrs sweep along. 

Or sigh among the trees, 
Then think upon the Greenwood song, 

And let the spirit please. 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



DIRE WINTER RULES THE DREARY 
REALM. 

DmE Winter rules the dreary realm, 
The sea-gull screams o'er Kill von Kull, 

The hardy boatman dreads the helm, 
And scarcely through the ice can scull. 

And far around for shroud of snow 
The fields have changed their living green, 

The howling winds a tempest blow, 
And desolation rules the scene. 

Thus winter reigns supreme in him, 

Who sees his only joy depart, 

Nor flattering hope, with flitting pulse. 

Warms the least channel of his heart. 
107 



108 BIBE WINTER RULES THE DREARY REALM. 

But let my Mary smile again, 

That pulse how high, that heart how lights 
And silken joy shall drive the pain 

Of shadowy phantoms from my sight. 

With joy I'll hail the welcome spring, 

To see the elm protect the vine, 
And songsters to their mates shall sing 

And so will I, my valentine. 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET WAVE. 

Flow gently, sweet wave, glide slowly away. 
For short is thy passage to my dear natal bay ; 
There rolled in some eddy a moment may stay, 
Then launched in the ocean forever and aye. 

Thou mind'st me, bright wave, of life's fickle beam, 
As it glides down the course of its widening stream ; 
A moment in manhood, it may shine on the bay. 
Then sinks all ingulfed in the ocean of spray. 
From the fountain of life, to the ocean of death 
We pause but a moment, we draw but a breath. 



109 



THE CLOVE. 

In search of contentment whoever may rove, 
Though weary, delighted must pause in this clove ; 
Where the picture of bliss in fancy may glow, 
And nature's pulse beat to the heart's healthy flow ; 
Where the hills will not echo an unholy sound, 
Nor an unhallowed sound through the valley 

rebound ; 
Not a sound that is heard but to heaven will raise, 
Every note that you hear is the music of praise. 
With a smile on the vale stands each hill linked to 

hill. 
And their plumes nod in grandeur to the murmur- 
ing rill ; 
And that smooth glassy lake that's reflecting the sky, 
Is the mirror of heaven where the goddesses vie. 
'Tis the wax-work of paradise, where there's nothing 

forbidden, 
The perfection of nature, the foretaste of heaven. 

no 



THE CLOVE, 111 

Ye toilers for riches, ye slaves from your birth, 
Ye ramblers for pleasure, ye reptiles of earth. 
Who find in your lives not a moment of bliss. 
Come, take ye a view of a model like this, 
Where fancy from truth gets those pictures so rare. 
And mocks every effort to make them more fair; 
And learn, though it's rare when the spot ye shall 

find, 
There's peace and contentment for the virtuous 

mind ; 
Though short to the best is the bliss that is given, 
One step to this vale, and another to heaven. 



THE RAINBOW. 

On Ararat top our pious parents stood, 

And viewed with joy the slow assuaging flood, 

Nor longed to ride the stormy deep once more. 

Nor mourned the good ship cast upon the shore. 

Nor the lost dove that brought the peaceful spray, 

Nor scattering herds that wind their rugged way. 

Their grateful breasts are filled with pious awe. 

And for the future would some aid implore ; 

From each clean herd a sacrifice they fell, 

And smoky altars raised a savoury smell ; 

The Almighty saw and pity moved His breast 

To ease their minds and put their fears at rest ; 

He said " No more on earth shall raging floods be sent, 

And as I swear behold my covenant. 

Seedtime and harvest shall again appear, 

And the rich soil shall bear the loaded ear ; 

The welcome seasons shall in order come, 

And shadowy night to brightest day give room." 
112 



THE RAINBOW. 113 

Then dewy drops through scattering clouds were 

sent 
And the bright sun burst through the firmament ; 
The reflected beams with animating glare, 
Draw the bright colors from the ambient air, 
In order each, and radiant as they glow, 
In the bright heavens they form a brighter bow, 
The waves supporting either end below. 
Their fears are now in admiration lost. 
Their toils forgot and stormy waves that's crossed. 
And view the truth as high in heaven it shone, 
That God and mercy ever shall be one. 

As heavenly truth awoke my slumbering fire. 
So semblance strong still keeps me to the lyre ; 
As from the clouds Sol calls the colors true, 
So light increased gives truth a brighter hue. 
It stands a bow to mind of debts that's paid, 
Of punished sin, of righteousness the aid ; 
Its form an arch, and as an arch 'tis strong. 
And as to heaven and earth it does belong. 
It rests on earth and bends the heavens along ; 
Its colors pure, so pure is heaven from crime ; 
As grand to view, so heaven is most sublime. 
8 



THE SETTING STAR (Venus). 

I SAW the lovely queen of night, 

Smiling in the western sky, 
It filled my soul with rapture bright, 

To see the laughter-loving eye. 

Her last looks were upon the wave. 
She brightened as she near'd the deep, 

She smiled upon the watery grave — 
That grave which makes so many weep. 

She is gone beyond the briny wave, 
No more she shines — the star of heaven — 

She sank behind the yearning grave. 
Bright stars but for a time are given. 

Yet heaven is filled with feebler fires, 

That spread around a lustre bright, 

United in their strength conspire 

To light the wanderer through the night. 
114 



THE SETTING STAB. 115 

So perish every star of earth, 

They only for a season shine, 
But still they hope a heavenly birth, 

Who cherish faith and love divine. 



THE SEASONS ALL MUST OWN THEIR 
BOUNDS. 

Thb seasons all must own their bounds, 
The fiercest storm must lull its blast ; 

The sweetest Spring that e'er's enjoyed 
Is when the dreariest winter's past. 

Thus, Mary, hope can brace the nerves, 
To bear the violence of the blast. 

That when the raging storm is spent 
To rest within thy arms at last. 



116 



TO MISS 



I've seen the sullen winter sun, 
Twice fourteen times return ; 

But still as colder blew those storms, 
The more did summer burn. 

But still with you that wintry frown. 
Through every change I trace, 

That's left in me an icy chill 
That time cannot erase. 



117 



THE POETRY OF NATURE. 

There's poetry in every scene, 

There's music in the spheres, 
There's harmony in every theme. 

Where nature's throne uprears. 

The warbling of the feathered throng, 
The murmuring of the running rill, 

The insects' call joined to the song, 
Thus all dissolved sweet notes distill. 

Like distant mountains wrapt in mist. 
Or lofty glaciers towering high. 

With scenes that mock learned diction's list. 
Behold the grandeur of the sky. 

Thus all resolved my soul may be. 

When my body lies beneath the sod. 

In nature's truest poetry — 

The fittest offering for its God. 
118 



FLL NEVER STRIKE THE LYRE AGAIN. 

I'll never strike the lyre again, 
No more its music makes me glad, 

For every fool has got his theme, 

And mine perhaps may sound as bad. 

Classic brute, and Classic man. 

Alike but ink historic page ; 
Then learn and live — live while you can, 

And let no thought but life engage. 



119 



IF MARY WILL BUT SMILE. 

May 1st, 1850. 

How gently spring is riding in ; on the welcome bull 

he is borne, 
While rich the wreaths of flowers are wound on 

either horn ; 
The fragrant falling blossoms a rich profusion yields, 
While gladdening vital lustre is brightening all the 

fields ; 
The crocus and the hyacinth, they now must yield 

tlie sway, 
And the early gay narcissus no longer looks so gay ; 
The sprightly, feathered warblers, with notes so loud 

and clear. 
Are singing, 'mid the blooming trees, the promise of 

the year : 
Thus gay the face of nature the flitting hours can 

wile. 

And every change shall cheer me if Mary will but 

smile. 

120 



THE COMPLAINT. 

In vain I turn the vocal lyre, 

The ear unwilling hears the strain ; 

Bereft of all its heavenly fire, 

And every earthly sense but pain. 

But only let my Mary smile. 

And all around shall seem more gay ; 
The changing scenes the hours shall wile, 

And joy shall greet each coming day. 

Then side by side again we'd rove. 
And strive the fairest flowers to cull, 

Careless to every thought but love, 
On blooming banks of Kill von Kull. 



121 



THOSE EARLY WALKS THAT WE HAVE 
TAKEN. 

Those early walks that I have taken, 

With the ones I loved so well — 
On grounds that long have been forsaken, 

Fond the memory loves to dwell. 

Bold invader with thy treasure, 

Spoil not that ancient hedge or lane — 

Sacred spots to heavenly pleasure, 
With thy toil so fraught with pain. 

My unseen ghost I want should visit 
Those sacred lonesome spots again ; 

There on some well-known rock to sit, 
And think not all of life was pain. 



122 



THE ECHO OF HOME. 

What spell is it that charms me, that I never would 

shun, 
That warms the chilled heart like a mild winter's 

sun ? 
What fancy pursues me, though far I may roam ? 
'Tis the deep rolling echo of my dear native home. 

The old faithful watch-dog as he greets me with 

The fond mother's call to her young roving boy ; 
The stern sacred bee, as she hums her own tale, 
And the mortals still echo from my dear native 
vale. 

The horse's shrill whinny as he sniffs up the gale. 

The deep lowing herds, as they stroll through the 

vale. 

The sweet singing birds on the orchard's low trees. 

Oh ! this is an echo so charming to please. 
123 



124 THE ECHO OF HOME. 

The wild shouts of joy as the woodland we rove, 
The sad, plaintive strain of the still mourning dove, 
The rough flapping sound of the discordant sail, 
Oh ! this is the echo of my dear native vale. 

Thou idol of manhood, why burst on my strain ? 
Be silent, kind memory, oh ! bring not your pain ; 
Why blight ye my fancy with that still blasting 

tale, 
'Tis not the echo of my dear native vale. 

When the father of exiles shall beckon me home, 
And bid the lorn stranger no longer to roam, 
With joy I will greet it, and then with a smile, 
Mount on an echo of my dear native isle. 



WOMAN'S HEART. 

Who has not found a woman's heart 
Is harder than a brazen shield ; 

And seen full many a blunted dart, 
Before its stubborn casement yield ! 



125 



TIME. 

Time's always mad, when we are glad, 
And flaps his wings and flies away ; 

And lags again when we are sad. 
And where he's welcome will not stay. 



126 



MARY. 

There's music in that holy sound, 
That charms me like a fairy. 

I could not love a lass 
Unless her name was Mary. 



127 



THE OLD CRUSER BURYING-PLACE. 

Oh, sacred spot, where human dust 
Lies mouldering 'neath neglected stone, 

Is this the end of human trust ? 

How happy then when fate's unknown. 

Who that these moss-bound stones shall see 
Shall wonder that the bard has sung ; 

They seem to bend in sympathy, 
And almost seem to have a tongue. 

Even this old barn would stand on them* 
Had I not kept it from the line ; 

I could not pile unhallowed stone 
IJpon an ancient worthy line. 

Then let us learn from this a truth — 

Though great in life that die we must ; 
Embrace the time while we are here 

And leave the rest to heavenly trust. 

128 



THE STORM. 

At sea near New Jersey Coast, July 10, 1878. 

How strange to think that I am here, 

And, stranger yet, to have no fear ! 

Surrounded by the boundless deep, 

The stormy clouds above us sweep ; 

Darkness hanging like a pall. 

O'er our noble wooden wall ; 

Loud the distant thunders roar, 

And vivid flashes light the shore ; 

But strong the nerve is braced 'gainst fear, 

When Thou, O God ! we know art near. 

Through storm and calm, through light and dark, 

And joys and ills Thou guidest our bark ; 

Through Thee alone we enter life. 

Through Thee alone we bear the strife, 

And when at length the strife is past, 

Thine is the haven sought at last. 
9 129 



TO LAURA PELTON, ON THE DEATH OF 
HER FATHER. 

Written in the special car while riding to the grave of my 
cousin, William Tilden Pelton, July, 1880. 

Oh ! child, bereft of a dear father's love, 

A charming, youthful, helpless, fluttering dove, 

Still there is left a heavenly Father's care, 

And still to heaven thou art a rightful heir. 

And short at most the journey here below, 

And vain the glitter of its gaudy show. 

But nature, teeming with a generous glow 

Of healthful life, through all its creatures flow, 

Bids you arise and take an equal share 

Of earthly joys, and youthful earthly care. 

When, worn at length, we feel life's journey end, 

Memory awakes, and life new pleasure lends. 

Life swiftly glides — we see the heavenly charms. 

Our parents beckon with their open arms ; 
130 



TO LAURA PELTON. 131 

Oh ! then thy life shall doubly be repaid, 
An earth-born child, a heavenly cherub made, 
Thy spirit, fleeing far from earth's alarms, 
Shall rest an angel in thy father's arms. 



MY OLD SHOES. 

And must we part, my dear old friends, 

So constant and so true ; 
A friend in need is a friend indeed, 

Although a poor old shoe. 

Together we have often strode, 

In pleasure or in pain, 
Companions, if I walked or rode. 

In sunshine or in rain. 

And now to think that we must part, 
As best of friends must part, — 

To think new friendships must be formed. 
It almost breaks my heart. 

Nor love I less for service past, 

Down-trodden and forlorn, 

I've loved thee well from last to last. 

But most since beauty's shorn. 
132 



MY OLD SHOES. 133 

But sad, oh ! sad, is common fate, 

The ash-heap and the shoe. 
But doubly sad when we reflect 

We'll soon be ashes too. 



TO SOPHIE. 

In days whilom when youth and health 
Their wanton course to rapture led, 

Had I such charming influence met, 
For fear of capture should have fled. 

But now to age serener comes, 
An angel face — an angel breath ; 

A foretaste of our heavenly hopes, 
Before we feel the sting of death. 



134 



FRIENDSHIP TO SAMUEL BURGER. 

Thinkest thou, Samuel, heaven's but a name. 
Then whence came friendship's true and holy flame? 
The only passion in the human breast 
That's not of selfishness supreme possessed, 
That feels another's woes, another's wrongs. 
Now thinks the pain alone to him belongs, 
That hails the joy within his fellow's breast, 
And feels more bliss than by himself possessed ; 
When fortune courts, would have him share his lot. 
When foes beset to shun the impending shock, 
Our friend we seek, our confidant and rock. 
Should heaven's true record every motive name, 
'Tis this alone that would not put to shame. 
The patriot's flame ambition would disgrace. 
And anxious love would hide his blushing face. 



135 



THE KISS. 

Those lips so high, 

Those eyes so shy, 

Who could refuse a kiss ? 

Oh, Time, ye slowly pain destroy. 

How soon ye perish, earthly joy ; 

How short is earthly bliss ! 



136 



ON THE DEATH OF MY LITTLE DOG " LILY." 

Died September 19, 1883. 

Oh, Jennie dear ! my thoughts on thee, 

As little Lily leaves my arms, 
And must each gentle spirit flee 

Till earth for me has lost its charms ? 

Only a little dog 'tis true, 

But dear, oh dear ! that dog to me. 

She was a kindred friend with you 
And warmed the love I have for thee. 

Still nature, kind, has love for me ; 

It warms the heart but does not shine ; 
For soon, too soon, its charms they flee. 

Till naught is felt but love divine. 

When from earthly cares at length I rest, 

And seek the mansions of my God, 

There in the chambers of the blest, 

I'd love to meet my little dog. 
137 



OH, LOVELIEST STAR OF NIGHT THAT 
SHINES. 

Oh, loveliest star of night that shines 

To my benighted soul, 
Oh, may its ruling influence bright. 

My walks on earth control. 

And may the love of Jennie's heart 

My bosom ever warm, 
And may its gentle influence guide 

My walks on earth from harm. 

Oh, holy Power, that rules the earth 

And guides the rolling spheres, 
Oh, Power of powers that rules above. 

And all that life endears. 

If in Thy power and in Thy love. 

And laws to nature given. 

Can hear the prayer of suffering love 

Appealing to high Heaven, 
138 



LOVELIEST STAR OF NIGHT THAT SHINES. 139 

May I my earthly task fulfil, 
With wisdom such as given, 

Then soul to soul united till 
The end of earth — and heaven. 



MY JENNIE'S GRAVE. 

When I have left this world of care, 
And given to earth, all earth can crave. 

Who will the garland wreaths prepare 
To decorate my Jennie's grave ? 

Sad is the thought, and hard to bear. 
But sadder was the hour of parting. 

But stricken life can thus prepare 
To calmly meet the hour of starting 

To worlds unknown. Oh, dreadful thought ! 

When unprepared by sorrows deep, 
And disappointed hopes are taught 

That we are here alone to weep. 

And work, and toil, and seek for joys 

That carnal thought can never give, 

Till heavenward turned, by blessed alloys, 

To seek the life that heaven can give. 
140 



MY JENNIE ' S GBA VE. 141 

Then garland wreaths and halos bright, 
And roses sweet around her bloom, 

And gentle twilight's softer light 
Alternate change from glorious noon. 

Perhaps my narrow fancy paints 
This heavenly change in earthly hue. 

But this is free from narrow taint — 
That earth is frail and heaven is true. 



OH, JENNIE DEAR! OH, JENNIE DEAR! 

Can I forget her lovely form, 

That angel all divine, — 
How could I hope to have her here 

Within these arms of mine ? 

Oh, Jennie dear ! Oh, Jennie dear ! 

Oh, still remember me, 
And mix what joy on earth I have 

With constant thought of thee. 

Still as in life I onward plod, 
Thy constant form is near, — 

And with my angel and my God, 
What dangers need I fear ? 

Oh, Jennie dear ! Oh, Jennie dear ! 

Oh, still remember me. 

And mix what joy on earth I have 

With constant thought of thee. 
142 



OH, JENNIE BEAR I OH, JENNIE DEAR ! 143 

Still, rolling Time, move gently on, 

With love and thoughts above, 
To meet my angel and my God, 

'Twill then be perfect love. 

Oh, Jennie dear ! Oh, Jennie dear ! 

Oh, still remember me. 
And mix the love in heaven above 

With constant thought of thee. 



BUT STILL I KNOW MY JENNIE'S DEAD. 

But still I know my Jennie's dead ; 

I know she cannot be, 
Save in my dreams, and wandering thoughts, 

Attached on earth to me. 

I wander round in loneliness 

Among the gay and blest. 
But turn me from this world of strife, 

I only seek for rest. 



144 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURKMAN'S 
DARLING CHILD. 

Almighty Father, blest be Thy will, 
We humbly bow beneath the rod. 

Hush ! be still, my murmuring heart, 
The messenger has come from God, 

Who sent his loving, blessed Son, 
To our accursed and fallen race ; 

His glorious light the victory won. 
And all that seek may find His grace. 

Think of the God who sent his son, 

An offering dear on Calvary ; 
The sacrifice was meant for all, 

And surely it was shed for thee. 

Now He has called thy darling home. 

Pure, untainted, by our fallen race ; 

She has gone to join that heavenly throng 

Eternal love her dwelling-place, 
lo 145 



146 ON THE DEATH OF MES. BUBKMAN'8 CHILD. 

Eternal hope, earth's dearest friend, 
Inspire thy breast to thoughts above, 

With hopes to meet thy angel dear 
In realms where dwell eternal love. 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPHINE. 

Sleep ! sister, sleep ! to thee is given, 
The joy, the blessedness of heaven ; 

If we possessed our Saviour's grace, 
We'd gladly take thy resting-place. 

What more could sinful man have given, 

To satisfy a righteous God ; 
The greatest blessing sent from Heaven, 

Is laid beneath the cold, cold sod. 

What less could bounteous Heaven receive, 
That all our joy and blessings give ; 

Afflictions for awhile may grieve. 
But come that every soul may hve. 

Then, mourner, by your loss improve— 

Think why the Lamb of God was slahi ; 

Thy sin contemns a Saviour's love. 

And crucifies your Lord again. 
147 



EMMA MOTT. 

And is it now a worthless corse, 

That once I loved to kiss ? 
Ah, no ! that which I loved so well, 

Has entered into bliss. 

It is the tenement alone. 

That mouldering back to clay ; 

That spark with its refulgent light. 
Is a celestial ray. 

And, Emma, we shall meet again, 

And I behold that face, 
That had such power on earth to charm, 

With all its heavenly grace. 



148 



I WOULD NOT HAVE THEE BACK, MY LOVE. 

I WOULD not have thee back, my love. 
What I call thee to this world again ? 

Where loveliest day but breeds a storm, 
And sweetest smiles may end in pain. 



149 



ON THE DEATH OF MAMIE E. BENEDICT 
BASINGER. 

June ISth, 1896. 

Ah, cruel Death, what hast thou done, 

Thinketh thou another victory won ! 

Ah no ! hear'st thou the song 

That swelleth from that angel throng, 

Celestial robed, divinely bright. 

And seen alone by heavenly light. 

Thou early claimed the mortal shade, 

Bat canst the Heavenly bourne invade. 

Where swift the immortal spirit flies 

To realms unseen by mortal eyes, 

Where gathering Angels round her sing 

And hear the Saviour's welcome ring. 

Divinely blest, we hear the Saviour say. 

While we stand weeping o'er the mortal clay. 



150 



MEMOKY.=«' 

On the death of Mamie E. Basinger. 

The friend of the past no grief can restore her, 
But the joy of the past is in memory's recorder ; 
Down deep in my heart, where my life's blood is 

beating, 
Lies the green grave of sorrow ; still the joys are 

repeating. 
When our deep sorrows yield to the slumbers of 

night, 
Then memory restores the gay dreams of delight. 
And we live once again in the scenes of the past, 
And wish, when awakened, that they ever might last. 

* Written in the Catskill Mountains, Sept. 6th, 1896. 



151 



WRITTEN VALENTINE'S DAY, AFTER THE 
DEATH OF . 

No more you'll see your Valentine, 
Unless that sight by God is given ; 

For He who sent her here to bud, 
Has taken her to bloom in Heaven. 

The joyous memory of the past. 
The memory of those writhing pains, 

The tears of friends that she amassed. 
Is all of her that now remains. 

Dear is the tribute each doth pay. 
Even dear the memory of her pain — 

For well we know it was the way 
That she her glorious end did gain. 

And dearer now does seem the abode. 

Of that blest welcome resting-place, 

Nor do we fear that dreary road. 

Nor dread the storms that we must face. 
162 



I 



I 



VALEN TINE' S DA Y. 163 

When some dear one a-travelling goes, 
To some far country's glorious round, 

'Tis then the heart a yearning knows, 
And gladly to that land would bound. 



ON THE DEATH OF PETER THE FLOWER 
BOY. 

{Drowned at New Brighton) who every few days, svmmer and 
winter, would decorate himself from head to toe with the 
most beautiful flowers, and promenade the roads for miles 
around. 

Oh ! where is posy Peter gone ? 

The rose it droops its head ; 
Why should it bloom on this dark waste, 

Or idly fragrance shed ? 

Old Pluto had no peace below,. 

For Proserpina railed — 
His scorching realms her seed would blast, 

And oft her labor failed. 

« 

In vain he brought down foreign seed, 

Or called down heavenly showers. 

Still rage or gloom would o'er her reign, 

Her joy was in the flowers. 
154 



DEATH OF PETER THE FLOWER BOY. 155 

Full well she knew of Peter's fame, 
For from heaven to Pluto's gloom 

Had spread the splendor of his name, 
In fragrant gorgeous bloom. 

And she would have him down below. 

To raise her drooping flowers, 
And bring them back to earthly bloom 

To deck her maiden bowers. 

The jealous god is forced to come 

And steal the boy away. 
And leave our land in sombre gloom 

To cheer his realm with day. 

Oh ! there was joy in Kingdom-come, 

Among the rosy bowers. 
With amaranthine wreaths they crown 

And hail him, Prince of flowers. 



ON THE DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON 
DOWNING. 

The roses droop, the lilies pine, 
Their guardian angel now no more. 

In vain we bud the eglantine, 

Or heavenly showers upon them pour. 

He sleeps as sleep the flowers gone 
When chill November blasts the plain ; 

But not like flowers o'er him we mourn 
That spring shall bid return again. 

Yes, he shall bloom beyond this vale ; 

He still shall be their guardian power ; 
He'll scent the rose in every gale, 

And visit them in every shower. 



156 



TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

Let Scotia boast her tuneful sons, 
Whose glory shall forever stand, 

Though her fruitful throes should never bring 
Another bard to bless her land. 

But from that gathered throng of fame, 
The heart in fulness fondly turns. 

And o'er the memory sheds a tear 
For truest, noblest, sweetest Burns. 



157 



TO MARY. 

Though sullen Winter hold its throne, 
The genial sun oft sheds a beam 

That wakes fond nature's softest tone, 
And calls my Mary to my theme. 

What fans that secret smouldering fire, 
That ever burns to be possessed ? 

What lights the flame of strong desire 
That to my Mary stands confessed ? 

How vain is all the pride of life. 

How vain the treasures here we gain. 

How vain our selfish worldly strife, 
How vain our toil, our sweat, our pain. 

Unless some genial social tie, 

Shall twine itself about the heart. 
To make our cares, our troubles, fly, 

And of ourselves become a part ! 

158 



THE WESTERN HUNTER. 

Seek not the city's smoky den, 

Or slimy marshes morbid fen ; 
On the mountain's craggy side 

Is freedom's home — the patriot's pride. 

In Luxury's lap young Edwin nursed, 
That vainly human woes would soothe ; 

We still must bear that early curse 

Though wealth our path may strive to soothe. 

He grew a sapling, tall and smooth, 

Unfit for toil, but strong to love ; 
How short that joy, how love's abused. 

When falcon hunts the turtle-dove ! 

She died of grief and cold neglect — 

He, mad with love, has left his home ; 

Time has his heartless parents wrecked : 

Behold the sturdy hunter roam. 
159 



160 THE WESTERN HUNTER. 

His coal-black steed, with eye of fire, 
With ample chest, and flowing mane, 

His master's will his great desire, 
He scarcely needs the guiding rein. 

'Twas his to find the doubtful path, 
The rider's part to seek the game. 

Though each could bear the traveller's part, 
And both could feel the hunter's flame, 

He glories in the rising war. 

His strength can nerve the rider's breast ; 
His steed can feel the rider's fire. 

Thus each the other's soul possessed. 

He taught the passions wild to flow — 
A generous friend, a mortal foe ; 

He gloried in the equal fight 
But never in the overthrow. 

He would not wear his limbs with toil. 
For all was his that nature bred ; 

Nor would he load his arms with spoil, 
But trusted Him who sparrows fed. 



THE WESTERN HUNTER. 161 

Unmoved he heard the battle's din, 

Unshaken saw the grizzly die ; 
But tears they flow at mercy's call 

And all awake to pity's cry. 

His heart is like a lion's strong, 

With eye as gentle as a dove, 
He seems like one that always has. 

And always would the mountains rove. 

Sarap and hunting-coat he wove, 

And buckskins deep, and breeches flare ; 

His rifle o'er his shoulder slung. 
Fixed to his sash his knife did glare. 

Thus shone our chief, the western pride. 
What time swift rumor's frightful tale 

Told to torture given, a captured maid — 
I'll die, he swears, or will prevail. 

And here I'll cease, for I'm content — 

Enough my tale to fancy gives, 
Enough to tell our hero went. 

And, having been, that still he lives. 



II 



THERE IS AN ARM TO SAVE. 

Why mourn you for the distant one ? 

Have ye beheld his grave ? 
Why lean ye not on bracing hope, 

While there's an Arm to save ? 

Though blackest clouds are loosened wild, 

And maddened billows rave. 
Yet mourn not for the living one. 

For there's an Arm to save. 

Why mourn ye for the perished one, 
Who sank beneath the wave ? 

Is there no port beyond this life 
Where there's an Arm to save ? 



162 



COME, JESU, KIND AND LIVING GOD. 

Come, Jesu, kind and loving God, 

A sinner's cries attend ; 
Save us from the chastening rod, 

And all our ways defend. 

Let not an humble suppliant's cry- 
Be heard in Heaven in vain ; 

But send Thy mercy from on high, 
And free a soul from pain. 

Save us with that precious blood. 

Which Thou alone could give, 
And thousand thousands still may save, 

But none without can live. 



163 



ON RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 

March, 1849. 

Rising from a bed of pain, 

From foul disease, I slowly gain : 

Corruption's slow refluent course 

My feeble powers can scarcely force. 

All nature smiles around serene. 

The laughing fields assume their green. 

The air with humming insects ring. 

And little songsters gayly sing. 

Suffering with o'erwhelming pain 

I longed for death— but longed in vain ; 

The tedious time crept slowly by. 

And hard the strings of life did try. 

Seeing all nature teem with life, 

I, gladly too, will join the strife, 

To shrink from pain, and death would shun, 

Rejoice that Heaven, Thy will be done : 
164 



ON JRECOVEBING FROM SICKNESS, 165 

But what most now to comfort tends, 

To meet the greeting of my friends, 

Who, wondering, see that I'm alive. 

And hope that I may live and thrive. 

And blest with health and strength and years. 

But most my drooping spirit cheers, 

To see the maiden's lovely tear. 
Not like those tears in sorrow shed ; 

Like joy that's risen over fear, 
Shining like stars when storms have fled. 

Yet all to death in time must yield, 
To seek a land, we are told, more blest; 

Yet may I toil on many a field. 
Ere with my fathers I must rest. 



WRITTEN FOR THE ORPHAN CHILDREN'S 
HOME. 

We thank the Lord that gave us birth, 

The Lord that saves the soul, 
Who thinks His meanest creatures worth 

His guardian control. 
He guides us o'er the desert land, 

Or on the stormy seas ; 
He bids the raging waters rise, 

And calms them at His ease : 
My father's home was on the wave — 
That wave is now my father's grave. 

And when He drove that ship a wreck, 

'Twas not without a will — 
And He our orphan tears to check 

Is Father to us still. 

He guardians to our aid did bring, 

And we our grief did tell, 
166 



THE ORPHAN CHILDREN'S HOME. 167 

That touched the heart's most tuneful string, 

And thus the numbers fell : 
My father's home was on the wave — 
That wave is now my father's grave. 



THE LAMB OF CALVARY. 

When first the soul the body warms 

With life-inspirmg breath, 
Who but the Lamb of Calvary 

Can save the soul from death ? 

When thoughtless youth, in search of joy, 
Would drive that soul to wreck. 

Who but the Lamb of Calvary 
Can total ruin check ? 

When gathering round our riper years, 

We see our offspring rise. 
Who but the Lamb of Calvary 

Can counsel and advise ? 

When frosty time shall bow our heads, 

And our full days are given. 
Who but the Lamb of Calvary 

Can bear that soul to heaven ? 

168 



IS THIS MY MARY'S HOME ? 

Is this the place where Mary dwelt. 

Is this my Mary's home, 
Where mirth and joy harmonious dealt ? 

How have these raptures flown ! 

No more the organ's sacred sound 

Swells to my Mary's touch, 
Her harp if touched sheds discord round. 

Why have I seen it such ? 

Discord and rage, dispute the ground 

Sacred to peace and love ; 
Soft peace within no more is found, 

And far has flown the dove. 



169 



THOU WHO OF HOPE COULD FOKDLY 
SING. 

Thou who of hope could fondly sing, 
Or tell the woes of Wyoming ; 
Or chant some legendary tale, 
May o'er a stubborn heart prevail. 

Then give that vanquished heart to me ; 
Or bid it set its captive free — 
Or lend thy power of song awhile 
That I may win my Mary's smile. 



170 



THE STOLEN LOCK. 

Poor captive, thou has lost thy place, 
No more on Mary's neck to wave, 

Where once you added grace to grace, 
How fallen, since thou art a slave ! 

I fain would gain'd her heart and soul. 
But blunted many a harmless dart. 

And when I could not get the whole, 
I thought no harm to steal a part. 

If, like this lock, I'd see thee fail. 
And in my care thy beauty pine, 

Then I'm content— I can't prevail, 
And make such heavenly graces mine. 



171 



THINK I CAN'T LOVE WHEN FAR AWAY! 

Think I can't love when far away ! 

When nature smiles in grandeur round, 
And social voices round me play, 

I'll hear my love in every sound. 

Think I can't love when far away ! 

Tho' tempest fills the stormy scene. 
And fortune sends an adverse day. 

My love shall make my life serene. 

Think I can't love when far away ! 

Though gulfs and seas may rage between ; 
Or desert wilds my journey stay, 

My love shall make that desert green. 



172 



REPENTANCE. 

Oh ! give me my first love again, 

That fanned my passions to a flame — 

Who first I loved, who first I feared. 

Who first my frightened passions cheered- 

ril never, never, rove again, 

Nor fill that honest heart with pain. 



178 



THE PASSIONS BURNING. 

How long my muse neglected lay, 
While I in pleasure spent my time. 

I seek the long deserted way, 

To drown my sorrow in my rhyme. 

Tell me, ye nine, has Cupid fled, 
For yours alone it is to know : 

For sure the urchin is not dead, 
He seeks new arrows for his bow. 

Oh no ! no galling arrow flies, 
'Tis loving Venus' fondest rest : 

And now she only opes my eyes. 
That I may see myself more blest. 

'Tis the strong pulse and not the wound 

That from the heart so freely flows. 

That runs its rapid course around, 

And still its wonted way it knows. 
174 



I CANNOT BOAST OF LOVE DIVINE. 

TO SOPHIA. 

I CANNOT boast of love divine, 

For I am of a mortal line ; 

Nor know I how the gods do love ; 

Nor court I as the turtle-dove. 

But 'tis a truth confessedly, 

I never loved a girl like thee. 

Heroes may smile where cannons roar, 

And face where iron tempests pour, 

And soldier-like may bear the smart. 

But who can bear 'gainst Cupid's dart ? 

Believe me, braver far than me 

Have died, by feebler far than thee. 



175 



ON FINDING A DEAD SWALLOW. 

If I thought you'd died of love, 

I'd sing the swallow not the dove ; 

But ever dark must be thy fate, 

Since man with bird cannot translate 

Death doth alike on all await. 

Naught else can the Destroyer sate ; 

I often read but knew no dove, 

Who pined in groves and died of love ; 

And none will lose believing me 

'Tis better far from death to flee ; 

Live not alone, but seek a mate, 

You'll find some bride will on thee wait ; 

For Adam sooner far had died. 

Than lived on earth without a bride. 

Like thee, poor bird, we're born to sorrow, 

But let us love, nor fear the morrow. 

Thy birth a swallow had set free. 

But death, alas ! has swallowed thee. 
176 



THE WISH. 

Once, as I drove my hardy steers, 
Enthroned upon a himber'd car, 

Bright Venus rose above the hills — 
I scarce believed it was a star. 

I thought it was Latana's son 
Leading his steeds before his car, 

And as I gazed it glowed and shone, 
But owned at length it was a star. 

Thus I beheld a maiden bright 
Of face, and form, and grace divine, 

So fit she seem'd for heavenly flight, 
I dared not hope to make her mine. 

I wished that she had been that star, 

And I had been the favored god : 

Or I, Apollo's shining car. 

And she to hold the reins and rod. 
12 177 



DRYADS, I HAVE LOST MY LOVE. 

Dryads, I have lost my love — 

Guide me to my Flora ; 
I cannot live without my dove 

So much I do adore her. 

The wine and oil shall freely flow, 
The gentlest lamb I'll offer — 

All these I'd gladly give to know 
If my love has turned a scoffer. 

But sure some storm is gathering nigh, 
Or those eyes so dim and darkling, 

Would, like the glow-worm in the night, 
Be for her Damon sparkling. 

Some wandering comet thus I'm here. 

Whose course is all distraction ; 

The sport of every social sphere, 

Nor feels its true attraction. 
178 



DRYADS, I HAVE LOST MY LOVE. 179 

Perhaps Orion, envious god ! 

Forgets the sister pleiads 
And claims those eyes to gild his sword, 

Oh, tell ! some gentle naiad. 



TO JENNY H- 



The summer clouds they often frown, 
And vernal joys scarce dare to shine, 

But softer scenes those storms must crown, 
So smiles succeed those frowns of thine. 



180 



TO CXJPID. 

Cupid, I'll have a quarrel with thee, 
Unless thou go away from me ; 
You little rogue, you seem possessed 
To aim your darts at my sore breast. 
Go, villain ! seek for manlier toil, 
Or let some school-boy be thy spoil ; 
Dost thou never mean to cease. 
And leave the weak to dwell in peace 
Why wast thou always made a boy, 
With thy folly to annoy ? 
You had better change thy life, 
Become a man, and take a wife, 
Then you'll learn what you begun 
Does not always end in fun. 
Begone, I say, and quit thy folly. 
Or I'll go and quarrel with Polly. 

181 



A SONNET. 

I WILL love thee still, 
Though thy heart may chill : 
The eyes I cherish 
Never will perish. 

Though far we may sever, 
Forget them I'll never ; 
Till life flits away 
Their light they'll display. 

And fill with delight 
Like that star of the west ; 
'Twill gladden my twilight, 
And welcome my rest. 



ia2 



YE LITTLE BIRDS, AWAKE NO NOTE. 

Ye little birds, awake no note, 
Ye fly too cheerily from the spray ; 

Too soft ye on your pinions float. 
Ye cannot drive my grief away. 

But if ye mourn, come mourn with me, 

Together by this rill we'll lie, 
And nature, that's forever free, 

With murmuring brooks and winds shall sigh. 



183 



LOVE. 

Love it is a holy name, 
The mimic of a heavenly flame ; 
Too pure the passion seems for earth, 
We deem it of a heavenly birth ; 
Love the passions can command, 
Mortals linking hand in hand ; 
The only foe for which he'll fiee 
Is the fell demon, Jealousy. 



184 



I NEVER TOLD THEE THAT I LOVED. 

I NEVER told thee that I loved, 
But think me not a stone unmoved ; 
I feel the flame, I own its power, 
And, longing, hope a happier hour. 



185 



TO ISABEL. 

'TwouLD seem the Almighty Power above, 
His creatures formed for hate and love. 
Some He His warmest love has willed, 
Whilst some with deepest hate distilled ; 
Some have an equal share from Heaven, 
And freedom's blessed choice is given. 
Then may it never be thy fate, 
That birth or choice has given thee hate ; 
Oh never ! never ! it were shame 
That love like mine should end in pain. 
Oh ! would my verse had power to tell 
How much I love my Isabel ; 
And when that love was known to thee, 
That joy for joy thou'd give to me. 
Then might I sing with Isabel 
That my fond love's reciprocal. 



186 



HEAR ME! HEAR ME! ISABEL. 

Hear me ! hear me ! Isabel ! 
My heart my fondest passions tell, 
While I pour my soul away, 
Hear the lover's fondest lay. 

Love has a sickening sound, 'tis true, 
It must not, cannot, sicken you, 
When friendship adds its holy name 
Unto that erring, headlong flame. 
In friendship first my love began. 
To trace his love, ah ! tell who can. 
My bosom held the smouldering shame, 
Till vent it found and burst in flame. 



187 



WHY SHOULD MY KOSE NEGLECTED LIE. 

Why should my rose neglected lie, 
And wither in this dark alcove — 

Neglected beauty thus to die, 

And perish with the charms of love. 

Neglected thus all beauty flies, 

When sick'ning thought clings to despair 
Unheeded treasure withering lies 

That's worth more than the miser's care. 



188 



THAT HAPPY TIME WILL COME, MARY. 

That happy time will come, Mary, 

This storm will pass away — 
The clouds they are but airy, 

And powerful is the day. 

The sun he shines more glorious. 
When through the storm he sweeps, 

Than Aurora gently rising 
To tell the world she sleeps. 

Hold love and hope in friendship. 
And wait the welcome hour — 

"Not be less kind than nature 

Who blessed thee with such power. 



189 



YOUNG MALINDA. 

Young Malinda, fresh and fair, 
With open brow, and eyes of lire — 

With rosy cheeks, and curly hair. 
And lips that might the gods inspire. 

But young Malinda had a fault — 

That fault her dearest friends had stung ; 

She'd fly to rage, in fierce assault, 
Much higher than my lyre is strung. 

In vain Malinda touched the lyre, 
For she would not her rage control — 

Her heart too easy fanned to fire 
For muse's power to charm her soul. 

Now young Malinda's friends were few, 

And they of mildest kind, 

Who checked the torrent of her soul. 

By passions more refined. 
190 



YOUNG MALINDA. 191 

Now, Mary, pray, a warning take, 
You have Malinda's charms and grace ; 

Know every fault that you forsake 
At least ten blessings take its place. 



SEE HOW MATILDA SCORNS MY LOVE. 

See how Matilda scorns my love, 
My song has lost its power to move; 
The grace of song alone is mine, 
And she contemns its power divine. 

All lost to her the sacred fire, 
No rosy wreaths entwine my lyre ; 
Matilda will not lend an ear, 
Nor deign a smile my song to cheer. 

Yet let me praise, ye sacred nine, 
Matilda's grace that's all divine — 
And bid my echoing song arise 
To bear her praise along the skies. 



192 



TO ISABEL. 

Pbgasean maids, ye nymphs divine, 
The guardians of the sacred line, 
And most, Erato, with me dwell, 
Whilst I sing of my Isabel. 

I would not ask of haughty fame 
To give to me a poet's name ; 
I only crave the power to tell 
How well I love my Isabel. 



193 



STILL I LOVE THEE. 

And still I love thee, Isabel, 
And how I long with thee to dwell, 
Had latent love the power to tell 
Our loves would be reciprocal. 



194 



TO CAMILLA. 

Had thy beauty well been known, 
First in verse thou might have shone, 
Thy splendor then we might rehearse. 
In sweet Anacreon's gayest verse ; 
And Solomon had made thee chord 
With the grandeur of his Lord. 



195 



TO MARY. 

Since Cupid's adamantine points, 
Have failed to pierce tliy steel-clad heart, 

ni try tliy armor at its joints, 
With the gentler muse's dart. 

Then listen, Mary, to my art. 

While for the prize I touch the string ; 
And take that casement from thy heart, 

And let me bays and myrtles bring. 



196 



TO CHLOE. 

If repentance has atonement for sin, 
Then well I have paid for neglect ; 

But who can that fabric restore 

That has suffered from ruin and wreck. 

When harvest is wasted and spent, 
And summer is ended and gone, 

Ask the tempest and storms to relent : 
Over winter, and famine, ye may mourn. 

Oh ! had I the wings, and could fly, 
I would not pursue the gay spring, 

To the home of my loved one I'd hie, 
And with her forever would sing. 

How careless the roses we pass. 

In their season of sunshine and bloom, 

And the lily, how heedless, alas ! 

Though inhaling their richest perfume. 
197 



198 TO CHLOE. 

But they have their day, and are gone, 
And see not, nor feel not the storm ; 

But we o'er their memory must mourn. 
Though nature has done them no wrong. 

Yet there's peace to be found in this smart. 
That still over pain has a charm, 

That the dart that's so deep in my heart 
No bosom but mine can do harm. 

There's a bloom in the waste of my heart, 
With tears I will water it long ; 

It cannot, it shall not, depart, 
'Tis the joy and the soul of my song. 

When of my repentance ye learn. 
Ye cannot I know but forgive ; 

A sigh in that bosom may yearn. 
Which hearing, a world I would give. 



THE MAID OF RAHWAY. 

I SING the Maid of Rahway, 
While suffering from the smart 

Of that sweetly poisoned arrow 
That wounded deep my heart. 

'Tis to the Maid of Rahway 
All other passions yield ; 

My herds neglected roaming, 
Uncultured are my fields. 

If for the Maid of Rahway 
I'm long oppressed with care, 

My business, all distracted, 
Will drive me to despair. 

Why for the Maid of Rahway 

I stroll oppressed with care, 

My bosom ever heaving, 

My mind forever there ? 
199 



200 THE MAID OF EAHWAY. 

'Tis that the Maid of Rahway, 
Should I to her appear, 

A lover sick with passion, 
She would not lend an ear. 

Tis for the Maid of Rahway 
I'm suffering now with pain ; 

And to the Maid of Rahway 
I venture to complain. 

'Tis to the Maid of Rahway 
I give what I possess ; 

If she will to the plaintiff 
A love for him confess. 



THE MAID OF OLD TOWN. 

Did ever ye rove, 
Through vale of the Clove ? 
There soon ye may gain, 
That fruitful old plain 

That lies back of Clifton. 

Like the sun ever beaming, 
There love's ever dreaming ; 
What a prize ye may gain, 
On the old smiling plain 

That lies back of Clifton. 

Not a bird on the trees, 
Nor a sigh on the breeze ; 
But sweetness may gain, 
On that musical plain 

That lies back of Clifton. 

What a pearl ! what a prize! 

Will dazzle your eyes ; 
201 



202 THE MAID OF OLD TOWN, 

Not a princess, nor crown, 
Can compare with Old Town 
That lies back of Clifton. 

The pride of that plain, 
O'er my heart may she reign. 
And my love I'll repeat 
Till it ceases to beat. 

May it lie back of Clifton. 



TO SOPHIE. 

I HAVE THOUGHT OF THEE A THOUSAND TIMES. 

FvE thought of thee a thousand times 

Since I beheld thy face ; 
Those sparkling eyes, that polished brow, 

That almost heavenly grace. 

Oh no ; I've thought of thee but once ; 

In one unbroken chain 
Are bound my day-thoughts and my dreams 

In fancy's burning flame. 



203 



TO SOPHIE. 

There is music in that charming dame 

Of all my love the trophy, 
I could not love another lass 

So heavenly is my Sophie. 



204 



THE GIRL I LOVE SO DEARLY. 

It's great delight, 

Of a winter night, 
When the moon is shining clearly, 

In the distant lot 

To view the cot 
Of the girl I love so dearly. 

Where the beacon showed, 

Through the woodland road, 
The cottage standing peerly, 

That friendly light 

Shall guide me right 
To the girl I love so dearly. 

There by the side 

Of my lovely bride 

To spend an evening cheerly, 

And ere we part, 

The tear shall start, 

From the girl who loves me dearly. 
205 



BIDDY YOUNG. 

I WENT to church the other night, 
My head was gay, my heart was light, 
They prayed sublime, and sweetly sung, 
But all was lost through Biddy Young. 

My tongue was mute, my heart was wrung. 

Oh ! I'm unstrung by Biddy Young. 

With heavy heart I went away, 
And thought of her both night and day ; 
My wounded heart was deeply stung 
By the soft eyes of Biddy Young. 

My tongue was mute, my heart was wrung. 

Oh ! I'm unstrung by Biddy Young. 

With pensive brow I shun the field. 

For hope has ceased to count the yield, 

And idly stroll the woods among, 

And think alone of Biddy Young. 

My tongue was mute my heart was wrung. 

Oh ! I'm unstrung by Biddy Young. 
206 



BIDDY TOUNO, 207 

I drag along with feeble feet, 
My pulse has almost ceased to beat, 
My life on its last thread is swung, 
And must I die for Biddy Young ? 

My tongue was mute, my heart was wrung. 

Oh ! I'm unstrung by Biddy Young. 

When this dull life has passed away. 
And night has closed upon my day. 
Still o'er that rest a gloom is hung 
Those dreams I fear of Biddy Young. 

My tongue is mute, my heart is wrung. 

Oh ! I'm undone by Biddy Young. 



TO MISS MARY L. PELTON. 

Oh, Mary, the sun of our joy, 
Why hast thou thus left us forlorn ? 

How could ye our pleasure destroy, 
While the dewdrops yet spangled the morn? 

Every face is the stamp of despair, 
All nature seems teeming with pain, 

The trees look so naked and bare. 
That they never can blossom again. 

Like the sun when he slopes down the south, 
What a waste he leaves barren and drear. 

Yet safe he retireth in strength, 
While the winter pours in on his rear. 

If, perchance, you revisit my dreams. 

So transient the joys you display. 
Such a chaos of brightness it seems. 

Like meteors they vanish ere day, 

208 



TO MISS MABY L. P ELTON, 209 

Oh ! that you were but a star, 

That your twinkling might gladden our plain, 
And I, on some heavenly car, 

Like Orion, pursuing in vain. 

But why thus the moments beguile, 
Or mourn for the sunshine and shower ; 

To invite you again to our isle, 
Is all that is left in our power. 
14 



MY ISLAND MAID. 

Sure as brightest gems abound, 
Where the milky way is laid, 

So fairest ones on isles are found, 
But loveliest is my Island maid. 

She'd gild Orion's shoulder bright — 
"With meaner gems his sword is laid- 

Or turn the lovers madd'ning flight, 
Would my lovely Island maid. 

Another world she would destroy, 
Nor deem the forfeit dearly paid ; 

Like Helen fire another Troy, 
Would my lovely Island maid. 

But I am over fond 'tis shown. 

And scarce can write another line ; 

This Island maid shall be my own, 

And bloom my lovely valentine. 
210 



THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN. 

Is it Heaven's frown that thus appears, 

Or nature melting into tears? 

But through the fog the lurid morn 

Must darker grow, and more forlorn. 

Hark ! the city's distant bell, 

Sadly echoes through the dell ; 

And the cannon's distant roar 

Deep resounds along the shore. 

While storm and darkness yet prevail. 

The insidious foe creeps through the dale. 

And up the steep and rugged height. 

They wait the coming of the light : 

Hark! the beating of the drum. 

To arms ! to arms ! they come, they come ! 

Volley on volley the muskets pour, 

Fearfully the death-shots gore, 

In vain our bravest troops advance 

To fall before the Cossack lance ; 
211 



212 THE BATTLE OF INKEEMANN, 

The remnant of our lines retire, 
Before the cannon's deadly fire. 
Mad the rage of battle tore, 
Deep the echoing cannons roar, 
Sharp the click of rifles pour ; 
Dying groans, and smoking gore, 
All combine to wake our fear 
When we think no succor near. 
Now, to save our lessening ranks, 
Comes the lightning of the Franks ! 
Courage in their step, we trace ; 
The light of battle in their face ; 
Now awakes the slackening fight ; 
The battle roars from left to right ! 
The fog's dispelled, out bursts the sun ; 
The foe has fied, the field is won. 
Ah ! who can view this field of blood ? 
A tyrant's rage, a tyrant's frown, 
A pall should be that tyrant's scarf, 
An urn an emblem of his crown. 



CRITTENDON, THE CUBAN PATRIOT. 

All undeceived, the Patriot stands, 
His thoughts are on his native land — 
His heart with freedom's pulse beats high, 
But mourns its wretched destiny. 

He thinks of his distant friends and home, 
The land where his fathers fought and bled ; 
But his fathers for battle did not roam. 
Polluting the land with hostile tread. 

Oh ! had he but in battle died. 
On the bloody field his valor tried. 
Supinely stretched 'mid the shouting host, 
Smiling to heaven, have yielded up the ghost. 

But think not the soldier's spirit is lost, 

Though the demons of mischief have made him their 

prey, 

In heaven 'tis reckoned what their avarice cost. 

For the blood of the patriot they dearly shall pay, 
213 



214 CRITTENDON, THE CUBAN PATRIOT. 

As the Roman expired so his spirit shall fly, 
Nor sickens the soul that shall never die, 
But the hero's death shall honor his grave — 
That grave that was meant to dishonor the brave. 



AN ELEGY ON MY OLD CAT "PLNTK." 
Born March 30th, 1836 ; died December 25th, 1849. 

This Christmas night has taken flight 

The noblest of her kind, 
In grief I write what I indite, 

So kindred seemed her mind. 

Perhaps it will some body fill 

With intellect refined ; 
If souls advance, short be thy trance, 

Perfection of thy kind. 



215 



AWAY, MY MUSE. 

Away, my muse, I bid thee flee, 
ISTor tempt me to the strife again ; 

The world but envies when it sees 
The ready laurels that we gain. 

I'll meet thee in some lone alcove, 
Or at the winding woodland haunt. 

Or at the gentle sighing grove 
To Ora's self thy praise I'll chant. 



216 



THE SPRING RAIN. 

Let's rejoice amid the spring rain, 
For with it comes the flowers — 

While autumn's dark and sullen storms 
Bring naught but gloomy hours. 



217 



NOW I HAVE LEARNED IN LOVE TO 
APPEAR. 

Now I have learned in love to appear, 
Just as the world shows love for me ; 

And mark them with contemptuous sneer 
That practices coquetry. 



218 



ANSWER TO A LADY THAT WANTED AN 
INTRODUCTION. 

Fair stranger, be this truth transferred upon thy 

heart ; 
Who meet not, love not, weep not, nor have the pain 

to part. 



219 



DID YOU EYEIt MARRY YET. 

Did you ever marry yet, 
And hear a scolding woman fret ? 
With the broomstick bang the cats, 
And box about the dirty brats ? 

Did you ever marry yet, 
And hear the doctor dun for debt ? 
The butcher swear he would not wait, 
And baker run to shun the gate ? 

Did you ever marry yet, 

Or with the notion ever fret ? 

You'd better hang till you are dead, 

Than let the thought come in your head. 



220 



FULL MAISTY A LASS I'VE LOVED. 

Full many a lass I've loved, 

And many a girl has made me glad ; 

Yet never once a heart has moved — 
'Tis such a fate that makes me sad. 

Yet will I love, and love again, 

Through all my life though short or long, 
And to my muse I'll still complain, 

And own my passion in my song. 



221 



I NEED NOT TELL MY SOPHIE 
THAT I LOVE. 

No. 1. 
I NEED not tune the vocal lyre 

To tell my Sophie that I love — 
Nor need I play the flatterer's part 

And call her more than gentle dove. 
Enough to say that I am thine, 

And thou shalt be my Valentine. 



222 



TO SOPHIE. 

No. 2. 
The south wind is blowing, 

And spring is returning, 
And the soft notes of love 

In each bosom is burning. 
'Tis the heaven awakens 

This influence divine — 
With joy I'll obey, 

Here's to you, Valentine. 



223 



TO SOPHIE. 

No. 3. 

Long as I hear the feathered tribes, 
With notes of joy the woodland rings — 

So long, dear girl, shall be my pride 
Thy beauties and thy charms to sing. 

Long as I love the budding trees. 
Or view with joy the blushing rose. 

So long thy grace and charms shall please, 
And eyes that with fond rapture glows. 

Long as I feel the sacred fire, 

That wakes the soul to thoughts sublime, 
So long I'll tune the vocal lyre 

To praises of my Valentine. 



224 



TO MARY. 

No. 4. 
So stands the elm in pride of strength, 

And bears the clinging fruitful vine, 
Whose arms had been of useless length 

Without its cheering Valentine. 



15 225 



TO ISABEL. 

No. 5. 
Tbll me ! tell me ! Isabel, 
If love like mine does in thee dwell — 
Or if 'tis vain to love thee, tell. 
Or own it if reciprocal : 
Believe me, girl, that love like mine, 
Was seldom sent by Valentine. 



226 



BLEST BE THY CHOICE. 

None like the poet knows to love, 
The poet's flame is from above ; 
Blest be thy choice to own me thine, 
And doubly blest thy Valentine. 



227 



PIECES FOR AN ALBUM. 

No. 1. 
My album is my heart's recorder 

To mark the various passions of each friend, 
Sad, or deUghted, here I may prefer 

A chosen few to succor or attend. 

No. 2. 
We, of ourselves, are but a point to start ; 
Each social friend is an integral part, 
With Christ, the friend and Saviour of the soul, 
And God, the great Creator, forms the whole : 
Faith, love, and friendship then thy throne up- 
rear. 
And heavenly truths on every page appear. 

No. 3. 

Wealth and honor, youth and beauty, 

In rivalry assembled here — 

What is then the minstrel's duty ? 

Only here to shed a tear. 
228 



PIECES FOB AN ALBUM. 229 

Though each of these may be true-hearted, 
Yet all conspire to crush the flame ; 

And when the luring gem's departed, 
It only leaves its empty name. 

No. 4. 

Long may this verse your vision bless, 
And seem the work of yesterdaj'-, 

When this hand shall withering blight confess. 
Or moulder in its parent clay. 

No. 5. 

Pardon me, dear friend, if I presume 
To place so dull a flower amid this bloom ; 
The brightest petals, when they pass away, 
Leave no fair fruit to cheer a future day, 

No. 6. 

In flattering verse to jingle Charlotte's name 
On this fair page may be a poet's part ; 

But mine shall be to write indelibly 
The name of friendship on its owner's heart. 



230 PIECES FOR AN ALBUM. 

No. 7. 
When wasting time has swept this hand away, 

Should this remain here learn its faithful heart, 
Where truth and honor held their quiet reign, 

And smooth-tongued flattery never claimed a part. 

No. 8. 
Dear Lady, though you bid me write, 
I scarcely know what to indite — 
For should I tell you that 1 love, 
It only would to laughter move ; 
If I to flattery tune a string. 
The muses will refuse to sing. 
I'll hang my harp upon the trees. 
And trust the grandeur of the breeze, 
And call the gentle zephyrs nigh, 
And only answer sigh for sigh. 

No. 9. 
Like Eden this may bloom so fair, 

That ev'ry one their taste may suit. 
Nor need they fear the serpent's snare, 

For here is no forbidden fruit. 



iiiffi.^,?.! °'' CONGRESS 



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